


all the subliminal things

by lilcrickee



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Getting Together, M/M, Miscommunication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 12:05:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18073091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilcrickee/pseuds/lilcrickee
Summary: The thing about Brock is that he's pretty well liked, which is probably why it's so disconcerting that Elias clearly doesn't like him even though they've probably only exchanged a handful of words with each other in the week that Elias has been living in the house.





	all the subliminal things

**Author's Note:**

> this has been a bit of a passion project for me for the past two and a half months. big shoutout to the timeline for putting up with all my constant elias pettersson screaming even though, like, none of you care about the canucks.
> 
> this one is unofficially for fira. thanks for answering canucks related questions for your own fic, lol.
> 
> major thanks to cj for going to town on my commas and all the other ... little problems in the fic. you're the absolute best!
> 
> title taken from my true homeboys, the jonas brothers.

The start of term begins auspiciously enough.

It’s a surprisingly nice day outside for September, which naturally means that Brock’s sitting down in a lecture hall of 200 other students for his mandatory ECON 101 course. The fact that he’s pushed off this requirement until third year does not go unnoticed by the numerous freshmen who ogle at him as he saunters down the stairs and plants himself firmly in a seat somewhere halfway down. 

It’s fine, it’s whatever. Maybe Brock has procrastinated a little, but at least he’s not like Jake, who switched majors this year and is essentially starting over for real.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and Brock pulls it out. There’s a text from Bo that reads, _Good luck at school today honey!!!!!!!!!!!_ which is a joke, and another from Jake that is mostly just a string of emojis that Brock decides means that Jake is regretting a lot of his life choices at the moment. 

The most recent message is from Troy, though, and it says, _there is a child in our house????_ which is. Concerning, to say the least. He’s about to tap out a reply when a second message comes through: _sorry. not a child. says hes 20?? unreal._

Brock blinks, turns his phone over once in his hand, and then stares at the number on the top of the screen again, as if it might have changed in the nanosecond since he last looked at it. Nope, definitely Troy. Brock’s thumbs hover over the keyboard with uncertainty, but he’s saved having to ask a series of dumb questions when the prof walks in. 

“Okay, kiddos,” he says, halfway down the aisle and somehow already hooked up to the in-house microphone system. Brock blinks; did he just already have the microphone on him? Does Professor Tortorella just have his own personal mic pack hooked up to the audio system? 

He’d done a Rate My Prof before signing up for the course, and most people had said that while Tortorella was weird, he was effective. Brock’s not entirely sure what to expect, but as soon as Tortorella pulls a textbook out of his bag with his own fucking face on it he forgets all about Troy’s weird child-related woes and resigns himself to a very long semester.

 

 

“It’s syllabus week! He already gave us homework! Who does he think he is?”

An hour later, Brock is face-planted on the tabletop of his favourite coffee shop. Across from him Jake reaches over, lifts his head by the hair, and slides a napkin underneath his cheek. Brock hisses from the sting.

“I swear they didn’t clean these things all summer,” Jake says, wiping his finger suspiciously along the tabletop. “Do you know how dirty these things are, Brock? We’re university students. We’re filthy creatures.”

Jake wasn’t always like this -- germaphobic and neurotic. When they first met in first year, Jake had been the epitome of a frat boy. He still is, technically, but Jake had spent most of the summer texting Brock about this weird docu-series he was streaming about germs and diseases and the human body, and then the next thing Brock knows Jake’s switched into pre-med. From general studies. Poor boy.

“I appreciate your concern, but at least if I contract a flesh-eating disease or whatever you think these tables hold, at least I won’t have to go back to that econ lecture.”

Jake frowns. “You wouldn’t contract a flesh-eating disease from putting your face on the table,” he says. “I just mean, think of how much fecal matter is probably on this table. And now on your face.”

And that effectively kills any appetite Brock may have had. He reaches across the table and snags a Lysol wipe from the pack Jake has open by his elbow and gently scrubs his face with it. “I hate how you’ve ruined dirt for me.”

“Well then see if I ever treat you as my patient when I become a doctor.”

“You’re not going to become a doctor, Jake. You faint at the sight of blood and you’re afraid of germs.”

Jake blinks and then fixes his gaze on some point just behind Brock’s head. It’s what he does when Brock’s insulted him but Jake is too temporarily hurt to say anything about it. It used to make Brock feel bad, but once he realized that Jake got over those kinds of things within the hour, he stopped wasting energy trying to grovel for forgiveness.

“Did Troy text you this morning?” Jake asks, still staring at something behind Brock’s head.

“Oh, yeah, he did.” Brock fishes his phone out of his pocket and stares down at the texts again. “He said there was a child in our house?”

Jake nods. “Bo told me that we have to house an exchange student because the uni fucked up his housing and suddenly he has nowhere to live.”

“So they … stuck him in a frat house?”

Jake laughs. “No. They stuck him in Bo Horvat’s house.”

This reasoning makes way more sense to Brock. Their former president, Bo, still lives with them, and even though the frat is technically run by Troy, for all intents and purposes, Bo is still the leader of the house. He’s a law student, former class valedictorian, and winner of approximately a billion good-deeds scholarships. The university probably begged him to stay on campus or something.

“Okay. Well. I guess I hope he doesn’t mind?” Brock says. “Like. I know we’re a lot to get used to and we’re not the tidiest people - “

“I’ll make sure we’re tidy,” Jake says, with a glassy look to his eyes. “I swear we’re going to have the cleanest house on the row.” Absentmindedly, he plucks a Lysol wipe from the back and wipes his hands. Brock doesn’t doubt him.

“Okay, but still. We’re kind of a lot.”

Jake sighs. He meets Brock’s gaze again, which means that he’s gotten over Brock’s earlier comment. “I’m sure it’ll be fine, Brock. Don’t worry so much.”

 

 

Everything, is in fact, not fine.

The child is sitting on the couch when Brock and Jake finally make it back to the house. They’re laden down with armfuls of textbooks, and frankly, Brock is pretty impressed that neither of them tripped up the front stairs of the porch. 

“Why do you have so many books already?” Ben asks, hovering in the doorway to the kitchen. “It’s syllabus week.”

“Brock thinks it’s a good idea to get into the Textbook Black Market.”

“It’s not a black market,” Brock huffs, dumping his stack of books unceremoniously onto the dining room table. It’s usually cluttered with remnants of everyone’s various projects and papers, but it’s too early in the semester for that. “It’s a buy and sell and it’s a bit of extra cash in my pocket.”

“Yeah, like, 10 dollars per textbook,” Jake says, rolling his eyes. “Excuse me, I have to go wash my hands.” He’s about to dump his stack onto the couch when he yelps and says, “Excuse _me_!”

Brock cranes his head around the stack of books to see Jake staring at a stick-thin boy sitting on their couch. He’s got wispy blonde hair and bright blue eyes that are currently narrowed in angrily at where Jake is standing.

“I’m sitting here,” is what he says. Out of the corner of Brock’s eye, he sees Ben recoil. 

“I can see that now,” Jake says. He puts his books down on the coffee table instead and then turns back to the kid. “Sorry, I didn’t see you.”

“Well, duh.” For someone with such a monotonous, accented voice, the kid sure can pack a lot of scorn into one word and a sound.

Jake looks like he’s about two seconds away from spontaneously combusting from the pressure of finding something both cool and coherent to say back, so Brock cuts in and says, “I’m Brock. That’s Jake. Nice to meet you.”

Demon Child turns his scowl on Brock, and Brock does his best not to step back with the force of it. “Wish I could say the same,” he says. “It’s rude to try to dump a stack of books on someone.”

Brock suddenly understands Jake’s earlier dilemma. 

“Yeah, well, uh. Sorry,” Brock says. He tries to convey to Jake that they should make a hasty retreat ASAP, but it’s clear that a telepathic bond has not suddenly opened up between them. So instead, Brock bolts into the kitchen and leaves Jake to fend for himself.

 

 

The new kid’s name is Elias and he’s an exchange student from Sweden. Brock was always under the impression that all Swedish men were tall and ruggedly handsome like Professor Markstrom, but Elias is as skinny as they come and still has a lot of acne. Not that Brock has much of a leg to stand on as he just found a second head trying to grow on his chin that morning, but that’s whatever.

The point is, Elias is not what Brock had expected of a Swedish foreign exchange student, but he is exactly what he expected from Troy’s text messages. 

“That dude is not old enough to be in university,” Jake hisses as they gather in the kitchen, leaving Elias back out on the couch in the living room. He’d seemed perfectly content to sit there and thumb away at his phone.

“He’s 20. I asked him this morning when he showed up,” Troy replies. 

“Yeah, and did you ask for his birth certificate or something? Brock’s 21 and at least he looks like a man-child.”

“Uh, fuck you,” Brock replies. “I just haven’t gotten rid of all the baby fat on my cheeks yet.”

Jake rolls his eyes. “God. Anyway, I refuse to let some random child sleep in our house! What if he kills us all in our sleep?”

“You’d be the first to go,” Elias says, stepping into the kitchen. With the speed that Brock, Jake, Ben, and Troy spring apart, one would think they were catapulted away from each other. Brock feels guilty, but Elias’ face betrays no expression other than extreme disdain.

“Uh, Elias, hi,” Troy says, scratching the back of his neck. “We didn’t hear you.”

Elias’ eyebrow raises, and Brock can practically hear the way he’d drawl, _obviously._ However, he doesn’t say anything at all, maybe because Troy is technically the president of the frat and probably has more say than the rest of them on whether or not Elias should live in the house with them.

“He’s too stealthy to be human,” Ben mutters, and then adds, “ _vampire_.”

“I’m not a vampire,” Elias says, and Ben attempts to cower behind Troy. Impressive, Brock thinks, considering that Ben has about four inches on Troy. “I walked into the house on my own. Vampires can’t do that.”

There’s just a touch of humour in his voice, betraying the fact that the kid does, in fact, seem to have human emotions. 

“Also, if you're so concerned about my age you can see my passport, but I'm sure that won't be necessary, right?”

Slowly, like a collective with only one brain cell between them, they nod.

“Good,” Elias says. He leans against the doorframe, looking effortlessly slouchy, which Brock is immediately envious of. “Now, if there's nothing else that needs to be discussed, I need to unpack some stuff.”

Troy waves a hand at the direction of the stairs and Elias spins on his heel and glides out. Brock wonders if his movements are natural or just some calculated way of freaking them all out more. 

The kitchen is quiet for a long moment before Ben breathes out and says, “I know he said he walked in without being invited but I'm still not going to rule out vampire. Half vampire maybe. Or quarter. Kid is unreal.”

Unreal. It seems to be the reoccurring adjective used to describe Elias, and Brock has a feeling that at this rate, it'll be the house's word of the semester.

 

 

The thing about Brock is that he's pretty well liked.

It's not an exaggeration, either. There's apparently something about being an English lit major, frat boy, and member of the Paws for a Caws society that makes Brock an appealing person to be around. That and his rugged good looks, of course.

Which is probably why it's so disconcerting that Elias clearly doesn't like him even though they've probably only exchanged a handful of words with each other in the week that Elias has been living in the house.

“Man child,” Jake hisses as he passes by the bathroom in the morning. Brock's inside trying to tame his hair into something respectable but still badass looking.

Elias trails behind Jake, and he pauses in the doorway, eyeing Brock critically. “Probably more like a sentient gummy bear,” he says before continuing on down the hall, like those seven words didn't just completely tilt Brock's world on its axis.

Brock eyes himself critically in the mirror. He pinches his cheeks. He grabs a tissue and dabs at the shine on his forehead. He widens his eyes a little. Does he really look like a sentient gummy bear?

It sticks with him all day until he meets Jake and Bo at the cafe in the law building. Ordinarily, Brock would feel out of place amongst all the egos in the room, but he can't stop thinking about Elias long enough to let his coolness-related anxiety reign supreme.

“What's up with you?” Bo asks, kicking Brock under the table. “I bought you a brownie but you're looking at it like I just ran over one of your society puppies with my ten-speed.”

Bo is the only person Brock knows who calls his bike a “ten-speed” instead of a bicycle, like any other self-respecting citizen. He's also the only person Brock knows who likes to wear grandpa sweaters unironically and goes to bed before midnight every night. 

Jake glances up at Brock from where he's been meticulously disinfecting his cellphone. “Elias was mean to him this morning,” he says, almost like he's bored. “If I didn't hate him so much I'd actually be pretty impressed with the burn.”

Brock turns a betrayed look on Jake. “You thought that was funny?” he asks, and then adds, “Do you think it's true?”

Jake laughs a little. “God, no,” he says. “He's just being a dick. That's his only setting, so don't take it personally.” 

He's scowling down at his Lysol wipes, and it takes Brock a moment to clue in. “What did he say to you today?”

Jake tenses and shoots Bo a sideways glance, but after a moment he says -- whispers, really -- “He said I'm neurotic.”

Brock bites his tongue. This morning they'd all woken up to find Jake steadfastly scrubbing the kitchen sink with bleach. Brock's pretty sure that by this time last year they couldn't even see the bottom of the sink, let alone clean it. The fact that Jake not only washed all the dishes but was also _washing the sink_ was something new, to say the least. 

Maybe that's why Elias’ insults sting so much: there's just enough of the truth there to offend whoever his unfortunate victim is, which means - 

“I look like a sentient gummy bear!” Brock wails and faceplants on the table. It says a lot to how distressed Jake is that he doesn't attempt to save Brock from the lingering fecal matter on the surface.

Bo heaves a sigh and kicks them both. “Sit up,” he says. “You're embarrassing me.”

“But Captain, we're depressed undergrads who are being bullied in our own home,” Jake says despondently. 

Bo sighs again. He's told them all that he hates the nickname, but that's what happens when one chugs an entire bottle of Captain Morgan's in one night and lives to tell the tale. 

“I'll talk to Elias about it,” he says. “He's not really a bad kid, you know.”

“Yeah, because he thinks the sun shines out of your ass or something,” Brock grumbles, lifting his head. Bo slides his brownie under him, and Brock takes a tentative nibble. He's sure that if no one was staring before, they'd be staring now. 

“Just. Look. I'll get it sorted,” Bo says. He glanced at his watch. “Now get out of here. Don't you have to book it down to the forestry building, Jakey?” 

Jake yelps and gathers his Lysol wipes. “Why didn't you tell me that three minutes ago?” He hisses. “Now I'm going to be late.”

“You were having a crisis,” Bo points out. “Take my ten-speed if you want.”

“I don't know how to ride a bike!” Jake shouts back, and then runs out the door.

Brock chances a glance at Bo. He looks just as surprised as Brock feels. “He doesn't know how to ride a bike?” Bo asks. 

“Better not tell Elias,” Brock says, shoving the rest of his brownie into his mouth. “He will literally never let Jake live that down.”

 

 

Brock thinks that -- besides the addition of literal demon child Elias Pettersson -- the semester won't be terrible. He's got a couple of good lectures on topics he's genuinely interested in, and he's on pretty good terms with his prof for children's lit. 

Which is why it's a bit of a shock when Brock walks back into the classroom for children's lit and finds Elias sitting in his unassigned assigned seat. 

“Oh,” Brock says intelligently, and Elias scowls at him.

It makes something crack in Brock, a tiny split in the seams of his patience. Elias may torment him at home, but the literature department is _his_ domain, and Brock will be damned if he lets this little shit push him around where he's actually somewhat respected.

“You're sitting in my seat,” Brock says, stalking over. He knows he looks childish, with his hands on both of his hips, but Bo had given them all a lesson on power poses at the end of last year as his graduation gift to them all and Brock figures now is as good a time as any to implement some of those teachings.

“I don't see your name on it,” Elias drawls. He doesn't even bother to look at Brock when he talks. 

“That’s why it’s an unassigned assigned seat,” Brock hisses, and then asks, “Where did you come from, anyway? You weren’t here last week.”

“Transferred in,” Elias replies. “They wouldn’t let me get credit for one of my courses so I switched into something that would.”

“This is children’s literature!”

“I’m well aware of that, thanks,” Elias says, brandishing his copy of the syllabus at Brock. 

Brock knows he’s starting to get a little hysterical, if the looks on his classmates’ faces are anything to go by. He waves awkwardly at a girl named Jenny, whom he’s know since first year, and turns back to Elias.

“You’ve already taken over my home, do you really have to take over my classes too? Couldn’t you go bother Jake?”

This finally makes Elias look at him. “I would rather eat that moldy sandwich in the back of the fridge, thanks.”

It’s a pretty scathing review of Jake’s personality, and sadly, the only thing that Brock’s brain supplies him with for defending Jake’s honour is, “I’m sure Jake’s thrown that out by now.”

Elias doesn't look exactly convinced by this.

Brock’s just about to open his mouth to -- belittle? Yell at? Cry to? -- Elias some more, when Professor Markstrom comes striding into the room and says, “If you’re quite finished, Mr. Boeser, I’d like to get started right away. As you can see, I’m running a little behind, for which I apologize profusely.” He starts to unpack his satchel and get the computer up and running while Brock sinks moodily into the seat next to Elias. He doesn’t miss the smug look on Elias’ face as he concedes defeat, either.

The lecture itself is fine. They have a light discussion about their favourite children’s stories growing up and why, before going over a brief timeline of the origin of children’s fairytales and the like.

It’s a nice change from some of the heavier topics that Brock’s used to in some of his other lit classes. Overall, the class shouldn’t be too difficult. There’s a few short-answer pieces throughout the course, and no paper at the end. Just a group project, which will be easy for Brock. As the most well-liked person in the department, it means that Brock’s never had a bad group project experience.

“Also, your group projects,” Markstrom says, as if he’s a mind-reader suddenly. Brock takes a moment to think about puppies, just in case. “Because I’m disorganized and was busy over the weekend, I’ve decided that your teams for the project will just be the person sitting next to you. Teams of two, so those of you sitting next to two people will have to sort that out for yourselves. Anyway, have a great evening, see you on Wednesday!”

Markstrom packs up his things and is out of the classroom just as fast as he entered it, leaving behind a classroom of 50 squabbling students as they attempt to sort out who it is they’re partnered up with. Brock would admire Markstrom’s chaotic energy if not for one glaringly obvious fact.

Brock’s a go-getter. He likes Markstrom as a professor, and he loves his degree. He’s that kid that sits in the front of all the classrooms while everyone else sits in the rows behind him. Brock was the only one sitting in his row up until today.

Today, when Elias sat down in Brock’s unassigned assigned seat and unknowingly became his project partner for the whole semester. Unreal.

 

 

“One of you is going to wind up dead by the end of the semester,” Jake says when Brock tells the dinner crowd what happened. It's just Bo and Ben there as well.

“It can't be me,” Brock says, poking at his econ homework while trying to shovel spaghetti into his mouth at the same time. “I think Professor Tortorella would kill me if I died at the hands of a child.”

“I think Torts would kill you just for fun,” Ben points out. “He embarrassed a kid so hard in my class once that the kid just never came back.”

“I heard he yells at students during office hours,” Jake adds. “Who does that?”

“He yells at other professors too,” Bo says, piling more spaghetti on Ben's dwindling plate. This news surprises Brock; Bo is too much of a goody-goody to gossip about professors. 

“Anyway, the point is, Elias and I have to _write a children's book together this semester_. I think my heart has cracked right down the middle.”

The idea of writing a children's book on any given day is not exactly appealing to Brock. He's a literature student, not a creative writing student. But Markstrom had assured them in the syllabus that he'd be marking more for elements that were directly discussed in class, rather than overall coherency of the story. That being said, it still had to make sense.

“Yours will be more like Grimm's Fairy Tales at this rate,” Jake says. He takes his plate to the sink and comes slinking back with his Lysol wipes and a textbook as thick as a phonebook.

“I still can't believe you switched majors,” Ben says, eyeing Jake's textbook. “Pre-med is hard, dude.”

“Well, I'd rather do something that interests me than just keep up with general studies the whole time,” Jake says. He opens the textbook and sticks his nose in it, effectively signalling his unwillingness to talk to anyone anymore.

“You'll be fine, Jakey,” Bo says, but he looks a little concerned. Still, he turns to Brock and adds, “And so will you.”

Brock sighs and glances at his phone. “I have a society meeting,” he says, standing up to dump his plate in the sink with the others.

“You mean, you have a puppy playtime meeting?” Ben asks. 

Brock rolls his eyes. “I'm VP this year, so I have to help, you know, actually _run the society, thanks._ ”

He catches Bo mouthing, _proud of you,_ behind Ben's head, which is nice. Brock salutes the crowd and heads upstairs to grab his coat and house keys. He'll deal with the children's lit project later. And his econ homework. Everything can wait for puppies.

 

 

Things sort of settle after that.

Elias is still a dick to everyone in the house, but he’s a little less outwardly insulting, which Brock takes to mean that Bo spoke to him about being Satan’s Spawn where other people can hear him. The result is now Elias mostly just glares at them all, which is nice, except for how Brock isn’t a mind reader.

“Do we need more milk?” he asks, thundering down the stairs one morning. He’s going to be late for class if he doesn’t get out the door in approximately 30 seconds, but Bo had asked him to pick up a few essentials on his way home from class later.

The only person in the kitchen is Elias, and he just stares at Brock when he skids to a stop in the doorway.

“Elias,” Brock says. Elias says nothing.

So, generally, the whole mute aspect of Elias is a good thing. Brock figures that he’d still rather take Bo chewing him out for not picking up more milk than having to listen to Elias call him a sentient gummy bear everyday for the rest of the semester.

Things settling also means that they have enough time to plan their first party of the year.

Tradition dictates that they host their annual ABC party, which Brock is frankly over but the campus clearly isn’t. Sticking with what they’re known for saves them a lot of time and energy fighting on what the theme should be, but Brock’s quite tired of seeing stuff animals desecrated in ways he cares not to remember.

“Can you be in charge of Facebook invites?” Troy asks Brock. They're sitting at their dining room table -- looking slightly more disastrous now that the semester is in full swing -- for a mandatory party planning meeting. Even Elias is there, though he hasn't said anything.

“Why do I have to do it?” Brock whines, slumping in his seat petulantly. 

“Brock, you're friends with, like, half the student body,” Ben points out. “You have more Facebook friends than the rest of us combined.”

“Plus, everyone always wants to come since that time last year when you went to Fiji’s ABC party and accidentally flashed everyone your dick.”

Ignoring the second comment at least leaves Brock with a nice ego boost.

“If this is a punishment for being well-liked, I hate it, thanks,” he says. 

Elias scoffs at this, the first noise that he's made in days. Everyone's heads whip around accordingly.

“Did you have something you wanted to add, Elias?” Troy asks. His tone is way nicer than the one Brock would have used.

Elias shakes his head, then pauses. 

“Do I have to come?” He asks, and it's probably the first time Brock has heard him speak in a normal, human-like tone.

Troy blinks a little. “Well,” he says. “Everyone in the frat is supposed to attend, but I guess because you just live here you don't have to.”

“But you might like it,” Ben adds. “It's a good way to meet more people.” 

Elias purses his lips and doesn't say anything else. Apparently, he's used up his allotment of words for the day, which seems to suit Troy just fine because he continues to motor through the rest of the party planning. 

“So, Ben and I will be in charge of booze. Jake you're looking after set-up and furniture preservation and the like. We'll get Bo to deal with a DJ.”

“Is that really a good idea?” Jake asks. “Last time we let Bo pick the music and he literally just picked some weirdass dude that had only previously DJ’ed at the Wealth Management Club’s holiday party.”

“It’ll be fine,” Troy says, but he doesn’t sound too convinced to Brock. “As long as we have music, we’ll be fine.”

“I’m holding you to that,” Jake says, and Brock is inclined to agree. 

“Other than the music, though,” he says, raising his water glass and waiting for the others to follow suite. Everyone except Elias, of course. “I’d say we have a pretty good party planned. Cheers, gentlemen.”

 

 

In retrospect, Brock’s comment was a bit like hammering the final nail in a coffin.

As due to the nature of a party that requires guests to show up in anything but regular clothing, Brock has seen far too many unsolicited dicks and tits within the first two hours than he really wanted to. The drunker people get, the more likely Brock is to get flashed. He’s not sure what else he was expecting, having once been one of the flashers, but it’s still an unwelcome sight to see someone’s junk in such close proximity. 

Brock is -- mostly sober. He definitely wouldn’t go through the entire party with nothing in his system, but as a member of the house, it’s his job as the hostest with the mostest to make sure that everyone else is having a good time and no one is completely destroying the flat screen they’d all chipped in to buy at the end of Brock’s first year. 

Jake’s up by the DJ table, intoxicated enough that he’s forgotten about how many germs are probably floating around their home by now. He’s laughing at something the DJ is saying, which makes Brock smile. Jake’s been looking a little tense lately.

The others are scattered around the room in various stages of undress, passing out extra drink tickets and generally hyping up the crowd. Troy passes by wearing a toga that Brock’s pretty sure was recycled from Alpha Sig’s party the week before. Ben’s standing at their makeshift bar wearing a pool inflatable. Their freshman, Adam, is at the door in an adult diaper. Overall, it’s a good night.

The only person that isn’t present is Elias, but that doesn’t surprise Brock. Elias had left for class that morning and pretty much hadn’t come back. Or, Brock doesn’t think he came back. He also had classes and therefore wasn’t home during the day to find out if Elias had come back for any of his things or not. 

It’s not that Brock particularly cares, one way or another. He’s a nice guy, though, and no matter how bitchy Elias has been to him all term thus far, Brock would rather not wake up to someone knocking on their door tomorrow morning telling them Elias was found dead in a ditch somewhere.

Mostly because his hangover will be a bitch and he doesn’t want to have to get up and answer the door, obviously.

He forgets about Elias in the chaos of the party for awhile. Brock dances with some people, pours drinks for others, and calls a taxi for a group of girls who live off campus. It’s almost one in the morning when Brock gets the answer to his Missing Swedish Demon Child related question.

He’s upstairs, on Troy’s orders, to make sure that no one unwanted is using their rooms for -- less than savoury activities. Ben had once said, “If I’m not getting any in that bedroom, nobody else can either,” and Brock’s remembered it at every single party he’s ever gone to or hosted.

He’s halfway up the stairs when he first hears the voices, and by the time he gets to the top he can clearly hear what’s being said, despite the music and yelling coming from downstairs.

“You're not so tough without a hockey stick in your hand, are you?” one person says, and Brock's traitorous brain automatically wonders if the guy is talking about an actual hockey stick or if it's a euphemism.

“And apparently you're cowardly enough that you need to corner me at a party in order to get a word in.” Elias’ familiar drawl makes Brock's stomach flip over nervously. Elias is mean as hell, but he's also skinny as a twig, and Brock doesn't exactly like where this conversation seems to be heading. 

“Look here, pipsqueak. I know intramurals doesn't count for shit but you embarrassed me bad last weekend and I'm not here for that.”

There's a resounding _thud_ , like a body being pushed against a wall, which is Brock's cue to step out of the shadows and into the situation.

As he suspected, Elias is pressed back against the wall of the upstairs hallway. He's got a hand pressed to his cheek, but he's glaring daggers at the guy who's got him pinned. Brock recognizes him as Mike Matheson, some guy that Ben once played on an intramural basketball team with.

“Hey,” Brock says, leaning against the wall in an attempt to look casual. “Hope you're not fighting up here or else I'd have to toss you out.”

Matheson looks Brock up and down, like he's trying to decide if his pride is worth the risk of having to fight Brock to get out of the house. Brock's not big on throwing punches, but he has a size advantage that Elias doesn't have. Finally, Matheson says, “Nah, we're all good,” and ambles past Brock. 

They make eye contact briefly, and then Matheson is gone, disappearing down the stairs. Brock shivers a little.

When he turns back around, Elias is still slumped against the wall. He's moved his hand, and even in the dim lighting of the hallway, Brock can tell there's a bruise blooming along Elias’ pale cheek.

“Are you okay?” he asks, stepping forward. Elias shrinks back, so Brock pauses. He's never seen Elias look anything less than sure of himself. Seeing him without the bravado is like seeing a dog walk on its hind legs: unnatural and discomforting. 

“I'm fine,” Elias replies, but he won't look Brock in the eye.

“Look, if there's anything I can do - “

“I said I'm fine,” Elias says, but there's a telltale crack to his voice, the sound of frustration and humiliation.

Brock exhales. He doesn't owe Elias anything. He's just a snarky exchange kid that had the misfortune of being stuck in a frat house with a bunch of guys who've known each other for years. But despite how rude he's been to all of them, he still lives with them and should at the very least get the same protection that the rest of them get from living in a house with a guy that’s one-third of his way to being a lawyer. 

“Matheson is a jerk,” Brock says, taking a step back towards the stairs. “If he punches you again, let us know. We'll take care of it.”

Elias looks like he wants to protest, say something about how Brock doesn't have to fight his battles for him, but there must be something in Brock's expression that makes him pause. He nods his head, so Brock turns on his heel and heads back down to the party.

He almost misses the faint, “thank you,” that trails behind him, but luckily, there's a break in the music that means Brock hears it loud and clear. 

 

 

When Brock stumbles into children’s literature on Monday morning, he’s pretty sure he’s still hungover. 

After his encounter with Elias at the party, many drinks had been consumed. When Brock had woke up the next morning, the house was in shambles and everyone was passed out on the nearest flat surface -- mostly the floor. Brock was lucky enough to be squashed on the couch next to Jake, but had the misfortune of having a front row seat to Jake leaning over the side of the couch and vomiting on the floor. At least Jake cleaned it up.

Sunday had mostly been a day of cleaning and frantically working on homework, and even though Brock had consumed approximately half an ocean’s worth of Gatorade, water, and a weird herbal tea Bo kept insisting on giving all of them, he still felt like he’d been run over by a bus come Monday morning.

“How do you still look so terrible?” Elias asks when Brock sits down.

It’s the first thing Elias has said to him since Friday night, and also the first thing that Elias has said to him in a normal, public setting since the start of term. Brock tries not to stare, but it’s hard. His brain isn’t online enough to fully process what’s happening.

Elias stares back, unblinking. He looks a bit surprised by how surprised Brock looks, and after a moment he turns away. It takes Brock several minutes to realize that maybe that had been Elias extending an olive branch.

“Troy mixed me a drink on Friday that I think could strip paint from the wall,” Brock finally manages. “I’m still feeling the after effects.”

Elias frowns at the notebook in front of him. It’s open to a fresh page, dated at the top. His handwriting is unnaturally nice, or at least, compared to Brock’s unfortunate chicken scratch it looks unnaturally nice. Instead of feeling jealous, though, Brock just feels -- weirdly fond.

“North Americans are weird,” Elias mutters under his breath, but he offers Brock a small smile anyway, as if to reassure that he’s not completely put off, which just mostly throws Brock for a loop.

“Are you okay?” he asks, squinting a little. “You’re being weird.”

Elias’ expression flashes through a range of emotions -- none of which Brock can identify -- before settling on something stoney and cold. “Sorry I bothered,” he mutters, and shifts his attention back to his notebook. Brock blinks twice.

It’s certainly not that he doesn’t appreciate Elias’ concern. On the contrary, it’s a bit refreshing. But -- it’s also confusing, and Brock isn’t entirely sure if he should expect it to continue. Is this just a courtesy? A “thanks for not letting some meathead beat the shit out of me at your party” sort of nicety? Brock hopes not, but he can’t help but be a little wary. Unfortunately, it just seems to have pissed Elias off more. He doesn’t look at Brock once for the rest of the lecture, even when Professor Markstrom mentions their group project again. 

 

 

The thing about being a lit student -- heh -- is that there’s a lot of reading involved. And not like, chapters from a textbook or a case study or whatever. Just. Whole books that need to be finished within a week so that Brock can participate in class discussions and use his stupid iClicker for participation marks. The exception is Tortorella’s textbook, with his self-drawn self-portrait on the front, but Brock tends to use that more as a paperweight than any actual learning. That’s what Khan Academy is for, thanks.

Brock’s about two acts deep into a play he’s reading for his 18th century theatre course when a coffee appears in front of him. And not just any coffee either. It’s one of the caramel macchiatos from The Great Dane, the coffee shop on the other side of the campus that Brock never ventures to unless he’s leaving the law cafe and has time to stop. It’s probably the most glorious beverage Brock’s ever tasted, and he’s not really sure how it got in front of him.

When he looks up, Elias is standing in front of him.

“Uh?” he says intelligently, and then tries frantically to get his brain back to working with 21st century English.

Elias, for the first time ever, looks vaguely unsure of himself. He gestures at the cup, and then at the rest of the house in general and says, “Bo said you liked?”

“Uh.” 

Elias turns pink and then turns on his heel and walks away, leaving Brock feeling very baffled. Did Elias mean that Bo had bought the drink for him and Elias was just the delivery guy? Or did Elias buy it for Brock himself? And if he did, did he ask Bo what he liked and Bo told Elias that Brock lived and died for these caramel macchiatos? He’s certain that Jake didn’t tell him, because Jake probably would’ve spontaneously combusted just from being in close proximity to Elias.

The whole experience is kind of jarring, honestly, like Brock’s entire world has been tilted on its axis. Up until that moment, Brock had been under the impression that the universe worked as such: English lit was the bomb, Friday night was exclusively for parties, and Elias Pettersson was a little demon child that hated humans.

Brock hated to admit it, but perhaps it was about time to revise that last point.

 

 

It’s not like Brock pays extra special attention to Elias after that, but he just -- notices things. Adam, who’s in business, tells him it’s a psychological phenomenon, like if Brock were to buy a Toyota Corolla he’d suddenly notice all the Corolla’s rolling around campus. 

So Brock’s gone and gotten himself invested in Elias and now he seems to notice everything that Elias does.

Most mornings for breakfast, Elias makes himself a piece of toast and grabs an apple out of the fridge. He shoots Ben a judgemental look when he pulls out the Pop Tarts from the top shelf of the cupboard, but he watches Jake make himself a cup of coffee with interest, like he’s never seen someone add so much sugar to a cup before. 

Three days a week, Elias leaves the house before Brock does, and comes home late after dinner. He doesn’t loiter around on the main floor with the others, but always disappears up the stairs to his room. It takes another week of Noticing Elias for Brock to stick his head out into the front entry to actually see Elias go upstairs with his backpack and a hockey stick in tow. Huh.

The other two days a week, Brock comes home to find Elias at the dining room table. Sometimes Bo is there too, but most of the time it's just Elias hunched over his laptop, chewing thoughtfully on the end of a pen. Brock hopes Jake hasn't noticed this habit.

And on the weekends, Elias spends part of the day holed up in his room speaking in Swedish on the phone. Brock can hear the low murmur of words through the door every time he passes by, and even though Brock can't make out anything being said, he likes the soft, adoring tone Elias uses when he speaks. He wonders if he's calling his family or -- someone else. A girl or a boy, maybe.

So, it's not like Brock makes a habit of watching Elias, but by the time the weekend following the ABC party, Brock has a pretty good Elias Pettersson Calendar set up in his brain, and he's not sure what to do with all the information.

 

 

“Are you okay?” Jake asks. They’re back at their favourite cafe, the table carefully wiped clean by a Lysol wipe. Brock’s currently staring down a midterm in two days, which is frankly ridiculous; they’re only a month into the semester. Midterms are supposed to happen _mid term_.

“Have you noticed anything … weird, with Elias?”

Jake gives him the side-eye. Before Elias, Brock had never met anyone who could side-eye as well as Jake. “You mean, like the fact that he’s stopped treating us like we’re scum on the bottom of a boat and now just treats us like we’re scum on the bottom of his shoe?”

Brock shrugs a little. “He’s not that bad, still, is he?”

Jake tosses a used Lysol wipe at Brock’s head. “I don’t know when you hit your head, but yes. Elias is exactly still as bad as that.”

Brock fiddles with the Lysol wipe, wiping it across the table absentmindedly. “I don’t know, Jake - “

Jake suddenly slaps the table, spilling part of Brock’s coffee in the process. The people at the next table over look at them, but Jake pays them no mind. His eyes have gone wide as saucers. “No,” he breaths.

“Jake - “

“No, absolutely not. Your dick is the most traitorous dick of them all.”

“Okay, now hold up,” Brock says, because if he recalls correctly Troy once had the hots for a girl that had beaten Bo in a public speaking contest. Bo had spent weeks preparing for the contest and had gone through an entire tub of Ben and Jerry’s in the wake of his defeat. Brock’s pretty sure that this is not nearly as bad.

Jake just shakes his head. “Brock, he is a demon child. Satan’s spawn. I refuse to let him play mind games with you!”

“You’re being a little ridiculous,” Brock says, mopping up the spilled coffee with a napkin. “Like, you’re being pretty uptight about this.”

Jake’s gaze slides to something behind Brock’s head, and Brock sighs. “Jake - “

“Just don’t come to me when he bites your dick off mid-blowjob,” is all Jake says before steadfastly packing up his Lysol wipes and leaving Brock at their table.

 

 

Brock comes home from his first midterm of the year to a bottle of beer and a poker game.

He’s barely got his shoes off before Adam’s pressing a cool bottle into his hand and running past back to the dining room. “Poker night!” he yells, with all the enthusiasm of someone who has not yet been swindled out of all his money by Bo Horvat. Fucking law students.

Brock sighs. He’s a little drained from the midterm, but it’s a Friday night, and with no parties until closer to the end of the term, this is the closest they’re going to get to unwinding. Mostly, Brock wants to go to bed and sleep through the weekend, but he figures it’s in poor spirit to ignore a game that’s likely been set up on his behalf, as the first of them to suffer through 25 percent of his grade in the hands of one timed essay.

Everyone’s gathered around the table, including Elias, much to Brock’s surprise. Or -- maybe it shouldn’t surprise Brock. Elias has a better poker face than even Bo.

“How was your midterm?” Bo asks, tossing in another poker chip. Beside him, Jake grumbles under his breath.

“Fine,” Brock says. “I was prepared but it was just tedious. Writing for two hours on _Beowulf_ is not exactly riveting stuff.”

“Can’t imagine how good the book is, then,” Ben says dryly. Brock ignores him. Ben’s always the dealer because he can’t keep any of his expressions to himself, so Brock doesn’t think he’s got much of a leg to stand on when it comes to opinions on pretty much anything.

“Whatever you say, Mr. Fourth Year General Studies,” Brock mutters, and is surprised when Elias makes a weird, hiccuping snorting sound. It must surprise everyone else too, because everyone’s gaze momentarily slides from their cards to Elias.

“It wasn’t even a particularly good burn,” Jake mutters. He’s still a little pissy with Brock, but the worst of the storm is over between them. Brock just shakes his head and sinks into the empty seat at the end of the table, watching the others finish up the round. 

Troy and Adam tap out early, which is pretty much what Brock expects. Jake stays in, stubbornly, even though it’s almost always assured that he has shit cards. 

Bo, meanwhile, seems to be having a weird stare-down with Elias across the table. It’s a little unnerving, mostly because Brock is pretty sure neither of them have blinked in the last minute. Aren’t their eyes dry? Brock’s seen Bo use eye drops before; he knows Bo’s eyes are sensitive.

In the end, Elias wins -- both the staring contest and the hand. And he wins the hand after that, even when Brock’s been dealt in and stays in till the end. In fact, Elias wins all the rounds that night, which Brock would be way more pissed about except --

“This is the first time, in the history of ever, that Bo has ever lost this much,” Ben says, delighted. He slings an arm around Elias’ shoulders, and in a surprising turn of events, Elias does not shrug off the arm off or elbow Ben in the spleen. He just sits there, quiet and looking almost happy. 

“His reign of terror is over,” Troy says, dropping his head on the table. “I can’t believe I’m actually happy about losing money but I’m just so relieved it wasn’t to Bo again.”

“Why do you keep playing with him if he keeps winning all the time?” Adam asks, the only freshman in the house.

“Because it was too mean to put Ben in a game and watch him flounder so much,” Jake says dryly. “Honestly, you watch us play so often but you’re still so bad? How?”

Ben shrugs good-naturedly and flips Jake off. “Just wasn’t built for the numbers, I guess.”

“It’s a game of chance!”

Brock tips the last of his second bottle of beer into his mouth before pushing back from the table and ambling into the kitchen to dispose of the bottle. He’s just rinsing it out in the sink when Ben comes in with the rest of the empties. 

“You know, I think I kind of like Elias,” Ben says, handing Brock the dirty bottles and putting the clean ones in their glass bin under the sink. 

“Because he beat Bo at poker?”

Ben laughs. “Nah,” he says. “We were talking a bit before the game? Not a bad dude. Says he joined an intramural floor hockey team with some of the other exchange kids and so we talked about sports. Kind of like, a normal human interaction thing?”

Brock nods his head thoughtfully. It’s been a month of non-stop torment from Elias, and now this: an olive branch, an apology. It gives Brock hope that maybe his newfound interest isn’t so weird after all, that maybe underneath the snarky exterior there’s a nice person hiding in Elias’ soul.

“I’m still not ruling out that he’s a vampire, but at least I’m not afraid that he’ll rip my throat out in the middle of the night,” Ben says, effectively snapping Brock out of his thoughts. 

“Don’t count on it,” Elias calls as he walks past the kitchen, and Ben’s face turns white as a sheet. 

 

 

Social interaction really does seem to do wonders for the soul. For one thing, the house warms up to Elias after Brock’s celebratory poker game, and Elias seems to warm up to the other people in the house. Or, at least, he’s not quite as frigid to everyone. He says hello to people in the morning and actually does his chores and even buys Ben a new box of Pop Tarts when he runs out.

The only person that hasn’t quite defrosted yet is Jake, but that’s to be expected.

“You’re being a bit stubborn, even for you, Jakey,” Bo says the next time the three of them are at the law cafe. Jake is busy wiping down the table for them, and he leaves a very obvious dry spot right in front of where Bo is sitting.

“Look, you can’t make me like him,” Jake says, sitting down with his coffee and staring at some point behind Bo’s head. Brock sighs a little and pats Jake’s arm. 

“I didn’t say you have to,” Bo says carefully, even though that was essentially what he was trying to say. 

“I don’t care if the rest of you like him or want to be friends with him or whatever. That’s your choice. But he was a little bitch to me and I have a lot on my plate right now. I don’t have time for forgiveness.”

It’s true that midterm season is starting to ramp up. Brock had taken a peek at Jake’s schedule and had been aghast to learn that Jake had a midterm every week from now until end of term.

“That’s not a midterm,” he’d said, pointing at the one scheduled three days before the end of classes. “That’s pretty much a final.”

“This is pre-med,” Jake had replied and had gone back to his biology reading.

“I just want you to be happy,” Bo says, pushing a piece of carrot cake across the table to Jake. Jake eyes it suspiciously. “You’re so stressed all the time. I feel like the tension between you and Elias doesn’t help.”

“It’s fine,” Jake replies, and in a truly shocking move, pushes the cake back across the table. 

“It’s okay if you don’t like him,” Brock says carefully, reaching up to pet Jake’s hair. It’s still wet from the shower, but he ignores it because Brock is a good friend. “Maybe you could just be -- less hostile?”

Jake throws him a truly impressive looking scowl. “First of all, he was an absolute dick to every single one of us when he got here, right up until last week. I don’t think you have a leg to stand on when you ask me to not be hostile to him. Second of all, you have a big fat fucking crush on him so your opinions are moot.”

Brock feels his face burst into flames at the exact same time as Bo’s mouth drops. “What?” he asks, piece of cake poised on the fork halfway to his mouth.

“It’s not a crush,” Brock mumbles, but when Jake shoots him a sideways glare, Brock says it louder: “It’s not a crush!”

Several heads turn to look at them with interest. Brock sinks lower into his seat.

Bo’s piece of cake finally makes it into his mouth. He chews on it thoughtfully. “Is this because he didn’t like you at the beginning?” he asks.

“What?”

This, at least, makes Jake laugh. He snickers into his hand and steadfastly ignores the elbow Brock jabs into his side.

“You have a vanity kink, or something,” Jake says. “You like being liked by everyone, and Elias was the first person who told you to fuck off.”

If possible, Brock’s face feels even hotter than it did before. He knows Jake’s not -- incorrect. He likes being the guy on campus that everyone knows and everyone likes. Brock’s a nice guy. There’s nothing wrong with that.

“This isn’t -- I -- no. This is definitely not _that_ ,” Brock says, nonsensically. 

Bo eyes him critically and then pushes the last bite of carrot cake across the table at him. “We’re not judging you if that’s what it is,” he says slowly. Brock most definitely hears Jake say, _Yes we are._ “But just be careful. He’s only here for the semester, you know, and it’s almost half over.”

“It’s not a crush,” Brock repeats, though at this point he’s not entirely sure if he’s saying it to convince Bo and Jake, or if it’s more to convince himself. Probably himself.

He just -- he wants to get to know Elias better. He wants to know what kind of a person Elias is underneath all the sass. There’s nothing wrong with that. They live together. Brock wanted to know those things about all the guys in the house when he first moved in.

So. It’s not a crush. Definitely not a crush. Just some friendly, get-to-know-Elias attitude that Brock’s developed late, that’s all.

“Whatever you say, Gummy Bear,” Jake says, and promptly eats the last bite of the carrot cake.

 

 

Brock’s lying face down on the dining room table after his second midterm of the season when someone kicks his chair leg. When he tilts his head, it’s to find Elias staring down at him.

“We should start working on the children’s lit project,” Elias says, hands on his hips and looking very much like one of the children they’re supposedly writing for. Brock blinks a couple times.

“My brain is offline,” he announces and rolls his face into the table again.

“Jake hasn’t sanitized that in at least four hours,” Elias informs him.

“Good. Maybe I’ll catch double pneumonia and die before my next midterm.”

He can practically feel the force of Elias’ frown boring into the back of his head. “The grade doesn’t matter, but I need to pass all my courses here,” he says. His accent makes his words stick in odd places, the pronunciation just a little bit off. Brock thinks it’s cute. “You can’t die. Not unless I kill you.”

“I thought Ben would be the first to go?”

Elias laughs. It surprises Brock enough that he turns his head. He’s not sure if he’s ever actually heard Elias laugh before? It makes him wonder if Elias just repressed it this whole time, or if he’s genuinely been miserable enough in their house that he never bothered to laugh.

“Ben’s fun to rile up,” Elias says. “But he’s … nice.”

Brock hums. “He’s almost as popular as me,” he says into the table. “I think people like that he’s very unassuming looking.”

“That’s a nice way of putting it.”

“Oh?” Brock asks, turning his head a little. “How would you describe him then?”

The corner of Elias’ mouth quirks up. “I was going to say _unintelligent_.”

Brock chokes a little on nothing. Apparently Elias’ mean-streak hasn’t disappeared; it was just restrained. 

“Like, no offense to him or anything,” Elias continues. He sinks down into the chair next to Brock’s, gracefully and without making too much noise. Brock blinks. “Like I said. He’s nice. But I saw Adam tutoring him in game theory and it was going about as well as you think a freshman teaching a fifth-year would go.”

Which. Elias does have a bit of a point, but Ben has been his frat brother for longer than Elias has lived with them, so Brock simply says, “So, game theory’s not his thing. That’s okay. You mentioned something about our children’s lit project?”

Elias raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at him, like he knows exactly what Brock is doing, but is too lazy to call him out for it. “Yeah. I need to pass the course. So if you’re not too busy trying to catch double pneumonia, we should probably talk about it a little.”

“Sure,” Brock says. “Did you have any ideas of what the story should be about?”

At this, Elias purses his lips. It looks a little like he’s stuffed a frog in his mouth and is trying not to let it out. 

“Okay,” Brock continues. He pushes around at the papers accumulating on the table and comes up with a blank sheet from underneath what looks like Troy’s mechanical engineering homework. “Well. Children’s stories were often written to convey a message.”

“We should probably make it about a vampire.”

“And name it Elias?” Brock asks, raising an eyebrow, but Elias just laughs and shakes his head. It’s a surprising display of personality, and Brock is -- smitten.

“I just mean, like. They used to be scary stories, yeah?”

“We can make it about a vampire,” Brock says, jotting the word down on the paper.

“Name it Ben, not Elias.”

“You want to write a story about Ben?”

Elias smiles at him. It’s wolfish and a little sly looking, and Brock is suddenly reminded of Elias calling him _a sentient gummy bear_. This is a boy full to the brim with creativity, which means their story is going to either be extremely badass or mildly disastrous.

“It should be about a vampire who is afraid of vampires,” Elias says. “Lots of room for personal growth and life lessons.”

Brock bites his tongue so that he doesn’t do something stupid like release his Ugly Laugh. Instead, he writes down Elias’ ideas and underlines it twice. 

“I like it,” he says. “Like you said, lots of potential. And I don’t want to have to think too hard about this, so let’s just go with this idea.”

Elias looks pleased about this development. He leans back in his seat and lets a smug little grin settle onto his face. A month ago Brock would’ve wanted to punch the look of Elias’ face. Now he’s maybe thinking of kissing Elias instead.

“I have time tomorrow after my classes if you want to talk about this more and get started on the outline,” Brock continues.

Elias hums and tilts his head. “I have an intramural game,” he says, “but maybe after?”

“Sure,” Brock says. “You play hockey?”

“Ja,” Elias replies, and then pushes his seat back from the table. “Do you play?”

Brock shrugs. “I used to,” he says. “In high school.”

“Cool,” Elias says. He looks like he wants to leave but isn’t sure how, so Brock waves at him awkwardly until Elias seems to get the hint and ducks out of the room. 

It’s maybe the weirdest interaction Brock’s had with Elias, but it’s somehow still rewarding. Maybe he’s just clouded by his sex drive, but Brock would rather chalk it up to a blooming friendship instead, if only so he can prove Jake wrong about only being able to think with his dick.

 

 

Three days later, Brock comes home to find Troy, shirtless in the kitchen with a bowl of batter, and Elias holding a wooden spoon. 

“This isn’t what it looks like,” Troy says immediately. Elias looks like he’s in pain.

“What do you think it looks like?” Brock asks, leaning against the doorway. He hears the front door open and close behind him, and a moment later, Jake is standing at his shoulder surveying the scene.

“Something sexual?” Troy offers, which makes Elias immediately drop his spoon on the floor.

“I don’t even want to know,” Jake mutters and disappears up the stairs. Brock watches Elias’ eyes track the movement, before they meet Brock’s gaze. It’s a little intimidating, but Brock has long since gotten over their house guest’s death stare.

“You’re a disaster and I’m not quite sure how we elected you our president,” Brock says. He sinks down into one of the folding chairs they have set up in the corner of the kitchen. It’s part of a lawn set, but it’s the only thing that would fit.

“It was me or Ben,” Troy replies. He’s rummaging around in a drawer looking for another spoon, and after a moment, Elias opens the drawer by his hip and offers Troy a ladle. Brock watches the entire interaction with morbid curiosity.

“Oh, thanks, Petey.”

_Petey._

If Brock were to spontaneously turn into an emoji he’s sure he’d become the monkey covering his eyes. The entire scene in front of him feels a bit like a fever dream.

“So, if this isn’t what it looks like,” he says slowly, eyeing the way Elias moves around the kitchen gathering pans and ingredients for Troy. “What exactly are you guys doing?”

“We’re making pancakes.”

Brock looks at his watch. “It’s six in the evening.”

“Have you never had breakfast for dinner before, you heathen?” Troy asks. Elias looks like he’s in pain still.

“No,” Brock says slowly, “because I know how to cook things other than breakfast foods.”

Troy doesn’t bother to dignify Brock with an answer. Instead, he puts a frying pan on the stove and turns the heat on underneath it. 

“Brock,” Elias says suddenly, eyes darting nervously from the stove to Brock. “Uh. We should talk about our project, yeah?”

Brock tries to convey a look to Elias that says, _Are you sure you want to leave Troy alone in the kitchen?_ but Elias looks like he’d rather die than spend another minute with Troy’s attempts at pancakes. Still, Brock wouldn’t put it past Troy to burn their house down.

“Sure,” Brock says. “Let me just, uh, get something from upstairs.”

He leaves his backpack downstairs with Elias and bounds up the stairs, pausing outside of Jake’s door. It’s half open, so Brock doesn’t bother to knock.

Jake’s room is pristine, a far cry from last year when Brock wasn’t actually sure if he ever saw the floor. He wonders if maybe they could have achieved the same result if they’d just put Jake in front of the Marie Kondo program instead of the docu-series on germs; maybe Jake’d be less paranoid.

“What?” Jake asks. He’s lying face-down on the bed, so Brock’s not really sure how he knew he was there.

“Can you babysit Troy in the kitchen? I’m afraid he’ll burn the house down.”

“Can’t you and _Petey_ do it?”

Brock’s eyebrows raise. “We have a project to work on,” he says. 

Jake turns his head enough to give Brock the side-eye. “Is that a euphemism?” 

“No!” Brock exclaims, face turning bright red. “We have a project to work on for children’s lit.”

Jake rolls over onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. Then he turns and looks at Brock. “But you want it to be a euphemism.”

Which. Yeah. Brock would definitely like it to be a euphemism. There’s not much point in denying it at this point, at least not to Jake. 

“Jake, can you just, please, make sure Troy doesn’t set something on fire?” he asks. “At the very least, he’s making a huge mess in the kitchen and you know he won’t clean it up.”

Jake’s eye twitches. “It’s unfair that you’ll use my weaknesses against me,” he says, sitting up and swinging his legs off the bed. “It’s not like I’ve told Elias that you have a huge crush on him.”

“That’s because you won’t talk to Elias,” Brock points out. Jake merely brushes past him and heads down the stairs.

It’s nice that Elias is getting along with everyone else, but Brock suspects it will be a while before Jake comes around. He used to be pretty laid-back, but maybe the stress of pre-med is getting to him. Brock makes a mental note to tell Bo about it, before dashing back down the stairs to meet Elias to talk vampires.

 

The following week, Elias comes tripping into their front entry after his intramural game and Ben casually says, “You know, Elias is pretty good,” which sort of short-circuits Brock’s brain for a moment.

“At what? Being a dick?” Jake asks under his breath. Bo cuffs him on the back of his head for his efforts.

“Well. Kind of. But I meant hockey,” Ben continues.

“You’ve seen him play?” is the first thing that Brock can think of to say. He can hear Elias lumbering up the stairs with his gear and wonders when Ben had the time to watch Elias play hockey.

“Sure. Floor hockey is right before basketball on Friday nights,” Ben replies. “Elias and his team of freaky Swedish clones.”

“You can’t clone a vampire,” Elias says, breezing into the dining room with cold leftovers from the fridge and a bottle of blue Gatorade. He plops into the empty chair on Brock’s left and offers him a small smile.

“Have you tried, though?” Ben asks, pointing his pencil at Elias. Elias raises his eyebrows, but nods at Ben, conceding defeat. 

“We should go watch you guys play on Friday night,” Bo declares, which makes everyone at the table swivel their heads.

“But Friday night is for parties.”

“Ben comes to all the parties still. There’s plenty of night left to be had after intramurals are over.”

Jake sinks so low in his seat he’s in danger of just becoming one with the underside of the table. He’s pouting, but as soon as he catches the smirk curling at the corners of Elias’ lips, it turns into a scowl. 

“We could dress up,” Adam offers from the end of the table. He looks a bit like a skittish little deer still. Brock thinks it’s adorable. “And bring signs and stuff?”

Bo nods sagely, like this is the most important thing he’ll mull over all day. Brock can’t wait until he turns into a lawyer and has to actually think about real life problems. “That sounds like a good idea, rookie. I like it.”

“Um. We have the combined artistic talent of an inchworm,” Brock points out. “There’s going to be some damn ugly signs at that intramural game.”

Elias nudges him gently. Brock wonders when their chairs ended up so close together. “There aren’t any signs anyway, so it’ll be okay.”

Brock’s not sure if Elias means it’ll be okay that they’re ugly because there won’t be any competition, or that it’s okay that they’ll be making the only signs for an intramural game in the history of the rec league. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t really matter. If making an ugly sign to cheer on a bunch of Swedish hockey players makes Elias smile his cutest, shy smile, Brock will make a thousand.

 

 

And this is how Brock ends up at the student gym on a Friday night with a crudely painted handmade sign instead of pre-gaming for Fiji’s party.

Or, instead of pre-gaming for Fiji’s party at home.

Technically, they’re not supposed to be drinking in the public spaces of the university, but everyone has a Gatorade bottle filled with juice that only vaguely smells like vodka, and honestly, Brock doesn’t think he’d make it through the games sober anyway.

They’re dressed up in variations of costumes of frat parties past. Troy is once again sporting a toga. Bo is wearing a rainbow wig that adds approximately a foot to his actual height. Adam is dressed in a tiger onesie. 

Brock had somehow been convinced into wearing a Peter Pan costume, which is weird because he’s not exactly sure where the costume came from in the first place. At any rate, he’s wearing green tights and a long shirt that could be classified as half a dress, and he’s sure that anyone who didn’t see his dick at Fiji’s party has seen it now thanks to the costume.

“At least Elias will like it,” Jake had sneered as they were leaving the house. He’s wearing a Canucks jersey and jeans, which is pretty much the lamest costume of them all, but considering Jake hadn’t wanted to come anyway, it’s alright. Brock wonders what Bo bribed him with to get him to come to the game.

On the floor, Elias is steadfastly ignoring them. He’s talking to one of his teammates while nudging the ball around with his stick. The movement is quick, all deft hands and muscle memory, but Brock can’t help be entranced. When he catches Jake staring at him pointedly, Brock looks away.

Brock had played hockey when he was younger. He’s familiar with the game, knows how it works, and knows what it looks like when someone on the ice -- or in this case, the floor -- _really_ knows what they're doing.

Elias is one of those guys.

Brock knows he’s biased towards Elias, but he’s not stupid. Elias is _good_. He’s way better than Brock was when he still played on a team in high school, and he’s a lot better than any of the other guys on the floor.

Suddenly, that conversation with Matheson in their upstairs hallway at the ABC party makes sense. 

The game starts soon enough and the more Elias and his teammates score, the drunker they seem to get. Brock’s mostly forgotten his illicit Gatorade bottle, mind preoccupied with how Elias moves, because -- it’s hot. He’ll admit that. It’s really fucking hot and Brock is instantly regretting the tights he’s wearing.

Adam tips into his side, giggling. “Elias is really fast,” he says, and then cheers obnoxiously loud in Brock’s ear. He waves his sign around and smacks Jake in the face behind him. “Do you think he’ll teach me how to do that thing?”

“Which thing?” Bo asks from Adam’s other side.

“That -- you know -- that _thing_.”

The conversation sort of dissolves from there, along with the interest in the hockey game. They’re making quite a lot of noise, enough that the other team keeps sending them resentful looks, but Brock’s pretty sure he spots Elias smiling a couple times after a couple of spectacular goals.

They play two 10-minute halves. By the break, Elias’ team is up 10 to none.

“You guys score a goal per minute,” Bo says, impressed when Elias stumbles over to them. He’s sweaty, and his hair is a little stringy looking, but Brock is apparently into that. He strategically uses Adam’s discarded sign to cover his lap. “You’re quite good.”

“Thanks, Cap,” Elias says, and Brock watches in fascination as Bo’s face morphs through six different emotions at once before finally settling on impassiveness.

“He likes you,” Troy announces, waving his Gatorade bottle around. Brock’s pretty sure it’s empty now. “Cap never lets us get away with calling him that. Except for you. So he likes you a lot.”

To prove the point, Bo smacks Troy with his sign.

“You guys are pretty embarrassing,” Elias says, matter-of-fact. There’s a hint of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth again. Behind him, his teammates are giving them the side-eye. Brock wonders if it’s a skill that children are taught in Sweden; Elias’ entire team seems to be very good at it.

“Someone has to make sure your ego doesn’t get too inflated,” Jake quips. He’s just drunk enough that his words come out a little muddled, but his tone is still sharp.

Elias looks like he’s about two seconds away from responding with a scathing retort, but when he catches Brock’s eye, he pauses. His lips form a tight line before he spins on his heel and stomps away. One of his teammates yells at him in Swedish. Elias yells something back.

“I wish you two would get along,” Brock says, leaning back in his spot in the bleachers so that he’s resting against Jake’s legs. “Everyone else seems to be.”

Jake pinches Brock’s neck. “Let me have my grudge,” he says. “If I get nothing else this semester, at least let me have my petty moments.” He pulls a small bottle of Purell from his pocket and sanitizes his hands.

“Okay,” Brock says, just as the whistle blows for the next period to start.

This period goes by much like the last one did. Elias’ team racks up points, Brock’s frat whoops it up on the bleachers, and Elias himself tries his hardest to pretend that none of them exist. Understandable, Brock thinks, once he reads that Ben has written, _Show me how to stickhandle, Elias!_ on his sign.

The game ends up being 20 to six. 

“Are you guys playing in the right league?” Ben asks one of Elias’ teammates as they file over to the bleachers to get their stuff. “You’re in the competitive league and not Just For Fun?”

One guy raises his eyebrow at Ben. “We know what we’re doing, thanks,” he says, before going back to changing his shoes. Maybe they teach sarcasm to children in Sweden too, Brock thinks.

Elias is still on the floor, though. He’s talking to some guy on the other team -- or, the other guy is talking to Elias, and Elias looks bored. The longer Brock stares, the louder the other guy gets, until he reaches out and cross-checks Elias in the chest.

Brock’s out of his seat and striding across the floor before he knows it. He can hear the others scrambling off the bleachers to follow him, and in some weird detached way, he realizes they must look pretty stupid marching towards some guy dressed in their ugliest Halloween costumes.

“Hey,” Brock yells, startling the guy a little. 

“Dipshit,” Ben adds, for the dramatic effect.

The guy -- looks like a freshman, honestly -- cocks his head to the side. He widens his eyes, like he’s surprised to see a bunch of idiots in costume in front of him.

“Pretty uncool of you to cross-check our friend after the game is over,” Brock says. He’d cross his arms over his chest, but he’s still holding Adam’s sign in front of himself to protect what’s left of his modesty. 

“Are you defense squad?” the kid asks. He’s got an accent, but it’s thicker and harsher sounding than Elias’ pleasant lilt, and that’s not just Brock’s bias showing.

“If that’s what you’re calling friends these days,” Troy drawls, looking particularly unthreatening in his toga bedsheet. “You mess with him, you mess with us too.”

The kid still looks unimpressed, but he turns his attention back to Elias instead. “You make the rest of us look like fools,” he says. “All teams agree to this.”

“Maybe the lot of you just suck,” Elias retorts, but the kid shakes his head.

“No, it’s just you,” he says. “Your teammates are fine, but you are a showoff, and we don’t like that. Someone needs to teach you a lesson.”

Elias scowls. Brock would liken the expression to that of a petulant child if he wasn’t so into it. 

“I could beat a team of the best of you with guys who are inexperienced too,” Elias says. “It’s not that I am better than everyone else, it’s that I _make_ people better.”

The kid opens his mouth, then shuts it again. His smile is weird, Brock notes: turned up at the corners, like an emoji or something. It makes him look suspicious.

“Okay,” he says, leaning against his stick, casual as anything. “Challenge accepted.”

For the first time ever, Elias looks shocked.

“Uh - “

“I put together the team of the best intramural players and you have to play with them.” At this, the kid points at Brock and company. 

If Brock were a little more sober, he might feel offended by the insinuation that he’s a shit hockey player. All that he feels, however, is a growing sense of abject horror. From the look on everyone else’s faces, they feel largely the same way.

“And why would I agree to that?” Elias asks, regaining his composure. His face smoothes out into the same impassive mask that Brock has grown used to so far through the semester.

“Because if you win, we’ll all acknowledge that you’re the best of us,” the kid says. “I -- Jesperi Kotkaniemi -- will guarantee this.”

“You’re a little young to be making promises on behalf of the whole,” Bo interjects. Jesperi rolls his eyes and ignores him.

“If we win, however, you have to quit the intramural league.”

Brock knows that, in the grand scheme of things, the spot in the intramural league doesn’t mean a lot to Elias. The semester’s half over already, and then Elias will be gone. But it’s still a matter of pride, and Brock has learned that -- if nothing else -- Elias hates to look bad, especially in front of others.

“Fine,” Elias says, extending his hand. “Deal.”

Jesperi shakes his hand. “Good. I’ll let you know when I’ve put a team together and we can decide on the time. It’ll give you some much needed time to whip your team into shape.” He offers Brock a condescending salute before sauntering off to his friends.

Everything is quiet for a moment. Brock thinks Elias must still be in a state of shock. He’s as rigid as a statue, his mouth turned down at the corners. It’s an unattractive look, and Brock wishes there was a way he could fix it. Preferably with kisses.

“What. The fuck,” Jake says, breaking the silence. “What the fuck did you just do, Pettersson?”

Elias lifts a shoulder and let’s it drop. “I’m not really sure,” he says, turning his head to look at them. He eyes Jake’s Canucks jersey, notes the 33 stitched into the arm, “but I sure hope you can play as well as the name on the back of your jersey.” 

 

 

Brock’s semester gets a lot more hectic after that.

Between classes, the Paws for a Caws society, and now hockey practice, he barely has time to think. It’s not really what he signed up for, going into his third year, but it looks like everyone else is just as miserable as Brock is when they trudge into the dingey old rec building on the other side of campus for their first official practice. 

“I’m surprised you came,” Brock says to Jake, sitting down on the floor next to him to tie his shoes.

Jake huffs and double-knots his laces. “I may not like Elias, but that other guy dishonoured our house and I’m not here for that.”

“I haven’t played hockey since middle school,” Bo complains, joining them a moment later. “Do you think it’s like riding a bike?”

Brock takes a moment to savour the moment of Bo referring to the vehicle as a _bike_ and not a _ten-speed_ before saying, “I mean, probably? Like, you’re Bo Horvat. You’re not actually bad at anything.”

Bo preens a little at this and finishes lacing up his shoes. “Thanks, Brock,” he says. He stands up, ruffles Jake’s hair in passing, and heads off to the equipment room where Ben is talking to the manager and waving his borrowed hockey stick around at an alarming speed.

Elias is off in the middle of the floor, batting the ball around with his stick. Brock can see the tension in his wiry frame, can tell that instead of the confident player Brock had seen at the intramural game, this Elias is worried. Maybe about their skill level, maybe about the punishment. Whatever it is, Brock hates the hunch to Elias’ shoulders.

He finishes tying his shoes and saunters over. “Hey,” he says, aiming for nonchalant and missing by a mile when his voice cracks awkwardly. Elias tucks his smirk into the crook of his arm, faking a cough. Brock appreciates the effort. 

“Hey,” Elias says, letting his arm drop. He adds, “Um, thanks for coming out.”

Brock shrugs. “Not a problem,” he says. “We want to be here.”

“Really?”

“Well.” Brock thinks of Jake, still sitting on the floor near the doors and stretching his hamstrings. “That guy insulted all of us, so at the very least we want to defend our honour.”

Elias quirks him a small smile. “And at the very most?”

It’s an odd question, not quite in Brock’s day-to-day English, but it’s endearing. And -- a little flirty? He doesn’t want to look too much into it, but Brock is a 21-year-old boy with a not-crush, so he says, “I want to help you, too.”

Elias looks pleased by this answer. Brock, meanwhile, feels like his face might melt off from how hot it is. He glances away from Elias’ stare, just in time to see Ben and Bo striding over with their arms full of hockey sticks. Gradually, everyone meanders over to them as well, until the full team is assembled. 

“So, I think all of us have played hockey at some point before,” Bo says, handing out sticks to people without much regard to who needs what. Brock gets handed a left-handed stick that’s about three inches too short for him, and passes it off to Troy, who just scowls. “Hopefully, it means that we won’t be a total disaster and that this practice will go smoothly.”

“I mean, what could go wrong?” Ben asks, twirling his stick in his hands and promptly gutting Adam with it. Brock takes it as an omen. Elias just covers his eyes.

“Oh, knowing us, a whole hell of a lot,” Jake says dryly, before stealing the ball from Elias’ feet and firing it at the net set up at the other end of the gym. He misses wide by a good five feet. “Yeah. This is going to be great.”

 

 

It is, in fact, not great. 

Despite everyone having decent knowledge of the game and the mechanics and whatnot, none of them are used to playing on a team.

“I haven't played since peewee,” Bo complains as he misses the very soft pass Brock lobs his way. “Cut me some slack, please.”

“What's Brock's excuse, then? He played the most recently out of us and he still sucks.”

“That's just because I'm standing next to Elias!” Brock retorts.

Neither statement is particularly untrue, though. He's definitely a little rusty, and it's obviously harder playing ball hockey on a gym floor than ice hockey on … ice. But the point is, Elias is great and he makes even Brock's mediocre skills look downright shitty. 

“I thought you told that asshole that you make the players around you better,” Jake says, shooting Elias an unhappy look. 

“You've been here half an hour. I don't work miracles,” Elias drawls. He doesn't even flinch when Jake aims the ball at him and pulls the trigger, but that might be because he misses wide, to the point where Adam -- standing 10 feet away -- jumps out of the way.

“Hey,” Bo says, holding up his hands. “We're here as a team. We're brothers. Be nice.”

Jake looks like he wants to say something -- likely about how Elias probably doesn't understand the word _nice_ \-- but he holds himself back. Instead, he turns to Ben and attempts to pass him another ball. It goes about five feet wide, but Ben tactfully just goes off to retrieve it and doesn't say anything.

So, all in all, their first practice is a bit of a disaster.

Jake bolts as soon as he's allowed to, practically running straight out of his gym shoes. Ben, Troy, and Adam follow at a more leisurely pace, discussing takeout options and which season of The Bachelor they should rewatch.

“Did you guys need some help cleaning up?” Bo asks. He's shifting from foot to foot, which means he has somewhere to be but his conscience won't let him leave without asking first.

Brock glances around at the discarded hockey sticks and the shockingly large number of orange balls scattered around the gym. Elias is already gathering some up on the far side. Bo looks like he’s going to explode, though, so Brock waves his hand dismissively and says, “Nah, don’t worry about it. We’ll see you at home.”

Bo grins, waves excitedly at the two of them, and ducks out of the room, leaving Brock alone with Elias.

In a perfect world -- or a Hollywood romcom -- Brock would know the perfect thing to say to make Elias swoon and then jump him so that they can make out in the storage closet and then maybe go out for dinner or something. However, this is real life and even though Elias is friendlier to him now, Brock isn’t entirely certain that Elias wouldn’t punch him in the gut for trying to use a cheesy pick-up line on him.

“Are you just going to stand there and stare at me all night or are you going to help me with these balls?” Elias asks, which is entirely the wrong thing to say.

Brock is flustered. He’s a little out of his depth and a little panicked about being called out, and in a truly traitorous move, his brain-to-mouth filter completely fails him to the point that Brock blurts out, “I can help you with some other balls, too,” and then promptly falls to the floor in distress.

The sound of footsteps tells Brock that he has not, unfortunately, died of embarrassment and passed on to a state of oblivion. When he looks up, Elias is standing over him with a look of amusement on his face. There’s a faint blush to his cheeks, which is the only giveaway that he’s just as embarrassed by Brock’s outburst as Brock is.

“What are you doing?” Elias asks, nudging Brock with his stick. With his hockey stick. Brock’s brain has gotten him in enough trouble already.

“Wishing I could become one with the floor and disappear,” Brock mutters.

 

Elias makes a weird sound that might be a laugh. Brock’s not entirely sure. His brain is too full of white noise for him to make out sounds properly, which is why he maybe mishears Elias when he says, “I don’t put out on the first date.”

“Uh, what?” Brock turns his head. Elias’ cheeks have gotten a little pinker.

“Did I -- Did I not say that right?” Elias asks, shuffling from foot to foot. He mutters something to himself in Swedish, ponders it for a moment, then nods his head. “No. I’m sure that’s right.”

“What are you talking about?”

Elias sighs and crouches down so that he’s slightly closer to Brock’s eye level. “I mean, you made a crude joke about my balls and I was trying to tell you that I won’t have sex with you on our first date, not that this counts as a date, really.”

Brock’s brain must be shutting down. That’s the only explanation for what’s happening. Maybe one of Jake’s errant shots actually hit him in the head and he’s just dreaming this all up in the back of an ambulance on his way to the hospital. That would be ideal. Less embarrassing than whatever the fuck is happening right now.

“I -- uh. Okay.”

Elias sits back on his heels, clearly frustrated. “Brock,” he says, sounding annoyed. “I’m trying to tell you that I’d like to go out on a date with you and possibly have sex with you and you’re being very stupid right now.”

Which. Okay. Brock pinches himself and whines at how much it hurts. He’s not dreaming. Which means, Elias actually asked him out. On a date. Brock’s heart does a backflip in his chest.

“Sorry,” he says, because apologizing seems to be a good way to keep the relationship on track. “But, uh, yeah. A date. That would be … great.”

Elias rolls his eyes. “Okay. You can pick me up from my marketing lecture tomorrow at four. Then you can take me to Great Dane so we can work on our English project.”

Brock frowns and pushes himself up into a seated position. “Isn’t doing homework sort of -- not very date-like?”

Elias stands up, twirling his stick in his hands. It makes Brock’s mouth go dry; god, he’s got to get his mind out of the gutter. “Yes, but you waited too long to ask me out so now at least half of our dates are going to have to be study dates because we have to finish the story of Ben the vampire who is afraid of being a vampire.”

It’s kind of astonishing how much chill Elias has over this entire situation. Between Brock blatantly telling him he wants in his pants, to the ticking time-bomb that is Elias’ departure from North America, it’s kind of making Brock’s head spin. But, if Elias is willing to be casual and go-with-the-flow about this, Brock can be too. It’s not a big deal. It’ll be fine.

“Okay, fine,” Brock says, flopping back onto the floor. “But I demand 15 minutes of hand-holding and staring lovingly into each other’s eyes before we start.”

Elias sighs. “Are you always going to be like this?”

“Unfortunately? Probably yes.”

“Well. I guess I probably knew what I was getting into when you told me you wanted to help me with my balls.”

Brock rolls over and bangs his head against the floor.

 

 

Dating Elias makes Brock feel like he’s back in middle school or something.

True to Elias’ word, they hold hands for 15 minutes on their first date before they start working on their homework. They don’t stare lovingly into each other’s eyes though; instead, they shittalk the Canucks season and half the players on the team. More than a few disgruntled patrons glare at them, but Brock is used to it by now. He’s lived with Elias for a month and a half, and Jake for even longer.

But after that, there’s not too much of -- anything, really. Elias isn’t overly affectionate, but he lets Brock kiss him on the cheek in the morning when Brock is still half asleep and looking for his bag of bagels in the freezer, and he also lets Brock cling to him on movie nights when they all pile into the sitting room to watch scary movies just to hear Ben scream in terror.

“So,” Troy says, sitting down across from Brock at their dining room table with his laptop and a frankly ridiculous amount of paper. They’re all half finished sketches and equations that look like a foreign language to Brock. “You and Petey.”

And, well, it’s not exactly like they’ve kept it a secret, but Brock hasn’t really told anyone explicitly what’s going on and apparently, neither has Elias.

“Uh, yes,” Brock says, answering vaguely.

“Are banging?”

Brock coughs a little. “No,” he responds, and tries to go back to his book, like nothing is happening.

“But you want to be.”

Brock shrugs and bookmarks his page with an errant receipt from someone’s takeout. “I mean. We’re kind of dating? So. Yeah.”

Troy raises an eyebrow at him. Brock’s pretty sure Bo taught him how to do it before he passed off the mantle of frat presidency to Troy. Maybe that’s part of the reason why Ben didn’t win. “Kind of dating,” Troy says, then adds, “You might want to clear that up, Brock.”

Which, yes, obviously. Brock is 21, not inept, thanks. He knows communication is key to a relationship and he and Elias haven’t exactly communicated a lot on where this thing is going. Besides that night after their floor hockey practice, they haven’t talked about sex at all.

“Yes, Mom,” Brock says, swallowing around the thick feeling in his throat. It’s fine. He’s an adult, he can talk to Elias about … stuff.

Which is how Brock finds himself standing outside Elias’ bedroom door later that night after his Paws for a Caws society meeting. He’s a little nervous, and not just about the subject of their talk; Brock has never actually seen the inside of Elias’ room before. Part of him is deathly curious, but another part is worried that it will be -- weird. Like, Sorry I’ve Kept My Secret Sex Dungeon From You All Term weird, or something like that. It would probably be grounds for a breakup.

If they’re dating, that is.

Brock inhales sharply and raises his hand to knock. He lets the breath out slowly and is about two seconds away from letting his fist hit wood when the door opens, startling a very unattractive shriek from Brock.

Elias stands on the other side of the door, eyebrow quirked. “Hi,” he says, leaning against the doorframe. 

Brock takes his outstretched hand and casually runs in through his hair. He tries to mimic Elias’ pose, but misses the doorframe. So, all in all, this conversation is off to a good start.

“Hi,” Brock says, straightening up and offering Elias a smile. “How are you?”

“Doing better than you, by the looks of it,” Elias says. “Have I swept you off your feet already?”

The delivery of Elias’ jokes is always so dry, Brock never really knows if he’s supposed to laugh or not. He offers a nervous chuckle and runs a sweaty hand through his hair again. This shouldn’t be that hard. He just has to ask Elias if they’ve got a label on their relationship, maybe take him out for dinner or something. 

But Elias is staring at Brock with sharp, calculating eyes, and Brock’s mouth feels as dry as it does after a night out drinking. 

“Are you okay?” Elias asks, when Brock takes too long to say literally anything. “Do you need something?”

All Brock has to do is open his mouth and ask, but he can’t seem to get his tongue to form the words. Instead, he just shakes his head. Elias’ mouth quirks up at the corners.

“So, you just came to say hi?” he asks.

“Uh, yes?” Brock says. Elias nods his head consideringly. He glances down the hallway at nothing in particular before reaching out and tugging on the front of Brock’s shirt. He stumbles forward into Elias’ room and distantly registers the sound of Elias shutting the door behind him.

“Good,” Elias says, pushing Brock towards the bed. “I could use a break from studying anyway.”

“Okay,” Brock says faintly, vaguely pleased that he probably won’t have to take Elias out to dinner tonight if they can just stay in and make out for a bit. He flops down on Elias’ neatly made bed and watches with hungry eyes as Elias straddles his hips with a smug smile.

“Okay,” Elias echoes and leans down to kiss him.

They've done this before, the kissing. They've even done some pretty heavy petting, but there's something in the air that tells Brock that this will be more than that and -- he's definitely okay with that.

Elias rocks almost delicately against his hips, grinding down against him with care. His lips move easily against Brock's, like he's got all the time in the world. 

“How was your day?” Elias mumbles, trailing his lips down Brock's neck. Brock sighs at the feeling.

“Uh. It was -- good?” Brock says around a gasp as Elias simultaneously bites down on his pulse point and grinds his hips harder. “Had that dumb econ lecture again.”

“I mean, classes seem to be recurring throughout the term,” Elias says, and Brock pinches the skin of Elias’ arm.

“Don't you have something better to do with your mouth than sass me?” Brock asks. 

Elias shoots him a wicked grin and squirms his way further down the bed. It's decidedly unsexy, but Brock also hasn't gotten laid all term and his dick is definitely excited at the prospect of getting sucked. 

“Your jeans have holes in the knees,” Elias points out, settling between Brock's legs.

“Uh, yes,” Brock says. “There's also two holes at the bottom, for my feet, and one at the top for my waist.”

Elias glares at him. “But these holes are unnecessary,” he says, poking at the bare skin of Brock's knee. “And I bet you had to pay extra for these too. Unreal.”

“Can you please not criticize my fashion choices right now? If they offend you so much, take them off.”

Elias grins. “Sure,” he says. He undoes Brock's belt and pops the button on the jeans in quick succession. The sound of the zipper undoing is loud in the quiet room. Brock lifts his hips and let's Elias tug his jeans and underwear down his legs, leaving them tangled around his knees.

“Impatient,” Brock comments, wiggling his legs a little.

“You're one to talk,” Elias retorts, nodding towards where Brock's dick is curved up against his belly where his shirt has been rucked up. Brock tries to offer a salacious grin, but he’s not sure he quite conveys the right message, because Elias runs a calming hand along his thigh before ducking down and kissing along the same path.

It’s -- nice. Brock’s had enough rushed hookups to know that the foreplay isn’t always this drawn out, and that’s fine. But with Elias, it’s nice to just settle into the mattress and let him have his way.

“Fuck,” Brock hisses when Elias veers off of kissing random parts of his body to taking his dick in his mouth. 

Elias hums and bobs his head, wrapping his hand around what he can’t fit in his mouth. He falls into a steady rhythm that has Brock panting and trying not to buck his hips too much. When he fucks up into Elias’ mouth too hard, Elias pulls off with an unamused look on his face.

“Sorry,” Brock says sheepishly, but the breathiness of his voice probably voids the apology.

“Stay still,” Elias commands, and Brock tries not to groan at how fucked out Elias’ voice sounds already. 

He licks along the length of Brock’s dick before suckling on the head. Brock whimpers at the sensation, caught between watching Elias and tossing his head back in pleasure. In the end, he can’t keep his eyes open anymore, head tipped back against the pillows as Elias works more of him into his mouth.

It’s over fairly quickly after that. Elias returns to bobbing his head, his hand working in tandem with his mouth. It’s messy and there’s not much finesse to it, but Brock doesn’t care. He grips Elias’ free hand, which had previously been on Brock’s thigh, and squeezes in warning.

Elias pulls back, working Brock with just his hand. He’s staring at Brock with that same, intense death stare he’s had all semester except now Brock finds it inherently sexy. Distantly, he hopes that he doesn’t pop a boner every time he sees Elias glare at some poor, unsuspecting soul.

“Elias,” he gasps, bucking his hips up. “Elias, I’m - “

“Yeah, okay,” Elias murmurs, and Brock comes.

And, it’s not like Brock hasn’t jerked off at all this semester, but it’s different when it’s somebody else working him through it. Brock’s brain feels fried, and his limbs feel a little like Jell-O, and he’d really like to return the favour to Elias, but he’s not entirely sure if he has control of his body at the moment.

“Hey,” Elias says, crawling back up Brock’s body and poking Brock in the shoulder. “Don’t be selfish.”

Brock tries to say something like, “I’ll get you in a minute,” but it mostly comes out as an unintelligible groan.

Elias sighs and fits himself into the available space on the bed. “Fine,” he says, “I can wait.”

Brock pats Elias on the thigh and shuts his eyes. He didn’t get to say anything to Elias that he had wanted to but -- he got a pretty decent blowjob and Brock’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He’ll get around to broaching the boyfriend conversation with Elias eventually. Just -- after he gives Elias a great blowjob.

 

 

Every day, Brock tells himself he’ll talk to Elias about their relationship status, and every day he chickens out. He lets it fester, buries under the stress of assignments and work for his society and all the hockey practice he can muster into his schedule. He’s running on about four hours of sleep every night, and by the looks of it, his friends aren’t much better off.

He’s sitting in the law cafe again with Bo, idly stirring a dried piece of pasta in his coffee. The shops on campus have done away with plastic stir sticks, and while Brock is all about saving the environment, he could do without having to figure out what to do with a soggy piece of pasta after the fact.

“Jake’s late,” Bo says with a frown, checking his wrist watch. “I promised him a cupcake and he’s late.”

Brock frowns. “How come I don’t get a cupcake?” he asks, dropping his pasta stir stick on a napkin. The saturated section makes a weird _splat_ noise that makes Brock cringe.

“Because you’re getting laid on the regular,” Bo replies, and Brock feels his face turn red. 

“I, uh. Didn’t know you knew about that,” Brock says, fiddling with his pasta stick, just to have something to do with his hands.

“Dude, everyone in the house knows _about that_ ,” Bo replies, but he sounds weirdly fond. “It’s fine. I’m happy if you’re happy. Plus, Elias has been a lot more tolerable.”

“Yeah, you removed the stick up his ass and replaced it with your dick,” Jake says, appearing out of nowhere and dropping into the empty seat between them. More than a few people turn and look at them, but Brock has resigned himself to having embarrassed himself in front of most of the law faculty by now.

Jake looks -- tired. It’s the nicest word Brock can think of to describe the dark circles under Jake’s eyes, the unkempt hair that’s poking out from under his beanie, and the way his jacket seems to hang off of his slim frame. If the rest of the house has been stressed about their course load, Jake has been stretched thin. 

“Please, continue to broadcast my sex life to all of Bo's classmates,” Brock says dryly. Jake ignores him in favour of devouring the cupcake Bo has pushed in front of him.

“Are you okay?” Bo asks, and something clicks for Brock. They've been hanging out at the law cafe enough this term that he hasn't quite seen this for what it is: an intervention. 

Jake bobs his head. “Just peachy, Cap,” he says. He wipes his hands on the napkin Bo pushes towards him, and Brock notes that there is no hand sanitizer in sight. It's highly uncharacteristic of Jake, which means the intervention is, indeed, warranted.

“How much sleep are you getting at night?” Bo asks, and Jake narrows his eyes. He glances between Bo and Brock, and Brock shrugs his shoulders.

“No less than any of you, I'm sure,” Jake replies.

“Jakey - “

“Look, I have a full course load, okay? And those stupid hockey practices aren't helping matters.”

“I'm sure Elias wouldn't mind if you dropped out,” Bo offers kindly and glances at Brock for backup.

“Uh, yeah, he'd be chill with it,” Brock says, because he knows Elias would be. He also knows that Jake would rather chew off his own foot than look like he was backing out of a fight for their house honour.

“It's fine. I'm fine, don't worry about it,” Jake grumbles. He goes back to picking at his cupcake, but pauses, eyes glued to something behind Brock's head.

A hand settles in Brock's shoulder, and he Brock jumps a little. When he tilts his head back, Elias is standing behind him.

“Hi,” Brock says at the same time Jake asks, “What's he doing here?”

“I told him we'd be here,” Brock says. He gets up, offering Elias his chair before going off to see if there's a free chair he can snag from another table. When he gets back, Jake looks like he might commit murder, and Bo looks strained. Elias, at least, looks like he's pretending that nothing is happening.

“You violated the sanctity of the law cafe?” Jake hisses when Brock sits down again. 

“Contrary to your beliefs, you don't own this entire campus, and I can actually go where I want,” Elias says. 

Jake shoots him a glare. “I wasn't talking to you, thanks.”

“I'm literally sitting beside you. I can hear you. If you want to have a private conversation, go outside.”

Jake looks around the table and then stands up abruptly. He jerks his head at Brock, like it would pain him to ask with words, and then marches out the door with all of his belongings clutched in his hands.

Brock swallows nervously. Bo is looking at him with a look that screams, _don't fuck this up_ , so Brock mumbles a quick, “be right back,” and follows Jake out into the rain.

Jake is standing under an awning a couple feet from the front doors, looking livid and moody. “Hey,” Brock says, jumping awkwardly from his awning to Jake’s. There isn’t much point; he gets drizzled on either way, plus the people inside the cafe get to see his awkwardness.

“Hi,” Jake says. He shoves his bag into Brock’s arms so he can put his coat on.

“Wanna tell me what’s up?” Brock asks, handing Jake his bag back. 

Jake is silent for a long moment. He fidgets with his sleeve and then with a broken zipper on the front of his backpack. “You’re going to get your heart broken,” he says finally, which is not at all what Brock thought he was going to say.

“I - no, I’m not?”

Jake laughs, but it sounds a little hollow. “Brock, you’re halfway to being in love with the guy, and he’s just using you to get his dick wet. You either need to get on his level or break up with him.”

Brock knows, on a fundamental level, that Jake is probably right. They’ve been best friends since they started uni; Jake’s been there for him through Brock’s One Bad Break-Up and every embarrassing moment at every party ever. There’s an inherent level of trust between them, and yet, Brock can’t help but feel angry.

“Look, I get it, you hate Elias,” Brock says, tucking his hands into his pockets so that Jake can’t see how hard he’s clenching his fists. “But it’s just you now. Everyone else thinks he’s fine, but you just can’t get along with him. Why is is so hard for you?”

Jake’s face flickers through several emotions. Brock half expects him to ignore him, like he usually does, but instead Jake takes a deep breath in and says, “I wish I felt close enough to you to tell you,” which pretty much hurts more than any insult Jake could have hurled his way.

“He’s using you,” Jake repeats, pulling his umbrella out of the side pocket of his bag and opening it. He steps out into the rain. “If you’re okay with that, then fine, but I know you, Brock. Just don’t come crying to me when it doesn’t work out.”

With that, Jake turns on his heel and heads off towards the other side of campus, leaving Brock to shiver under the awning and mulling over his words.

 

 

The thing about their fight is that it sticks with Brock.

Jake is vindictive, but there isn't a reason for him to outright lie to Brock. No matter how much they piss each other off, Brock trusts Jake to always be honest with him.

But.

He doesn't think Elias is using him. He's just … not as attentive, maybe, to the nuances of their relationship. He doesn't seem to remember what kind of toothpaste Brock prefers, and he doesn't have coffee waiting and ready for Brock on the mornings when Brock hits snooze too many times. Not like Brock. Brock is a good boyfriend. Brock is good at being a boyfriend.

The doubts start to build, and they creep into every aspect of his life. Tortorella calls him out in his econ lecture when Brock spends too much time staring off into space and can't answer a question. Markstrom pulls him aside after class one day and asks him if he's alright. The president of the Paws For a Caws society offers him their newest golden retriever puppy to hold.

“He's not using me, is he?” Brock whispers to the puppy, stroking the soft fur on the top of her head. “This is fine, right?”

The puppy yawns sleepily and tucks her nose into the crook of Brock's elbow. It doesn't make him feel better, but Brock snaps a picture and sends it to the group chat. Everyone's envious replies help a bit.

It comes to a head one night after hockey practice.

They're all getting better: Jake's shot makes it on target 75 percent of the time, and all their passes seem to be connecting, albeit at a sickeningly slow speed across the floor. Ben has only tripped on his stick once in the past week. Things are looking up.

Brock's cleaning up all of their balls again, but when he looks up to tell Elias something funny for their book project, he's met with Ben's amused face instead.

“I sent your boy back to the house,” Ben says, making absolutely no move to help Brock clean up.

Brock rolls his eyes. “I can see that,” he says. “Is there a particular reason why?”

Ben's smile falters for a moment before straightening out. That's how Brock knows something's wrong. 

“Well, spit it out,” he says tiredly, and goes back to collecting balls.

“Brock,” Ben starts, then pauses. “Brocky, light-of-my-life, half of my heart - “

“Absolutely none of that is true and you know it.”

“Okay, fine,” Ben admits, puttering after Brock as Brock continues to scoop up all the balls they scattered during practice. “You’ve looked a little stressed lately.”

“Me? Stressed?” Brock repeats, because that’s -- not usually a word people associate with him. Sure, Brock feels the pressure like every other student, but he’s always been slightly more on the relaxed side than his peers.

“I just mean that you’re worried about stuff, and that’s cool and all, but Troy would like me to remind you that we’re all here for you, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Why does this feel like an intervention?” Brock asks tiredly, straightening up. He hasn’t forgotten how Bo’s surprise intervention with Jake had gone; Brock’s not really eager to see how the rest of this conversation with Ben goes.

Ben sighs and absentmindedly kicks a ball across the gym. Brock scowls after it. “Look, we just -- we just notice the difference between how you’re approaching your relationship with Elias and how he’s approaching it and - “

“Jake already gave me this talk, thanks, but I don’t want to hear it,” Brock interrupts, turning to go after the ball Ben kicked.

“I was just going to say that I know it’s probably hard for you to adjust, but you should probably just look at this like a fling,” Ben calls after him.

“Adjust from what?” Brock asks, stopping in the middle of the gym. They’re pretty much yelling at each other now, simply to have their voices carry the distance. It’s kind of awkward, to be having such a private conversation so loudly.

Ben shrugs a little. “From people throwing themselves at you like you’re the best thing since sliced bread.” It’s not said unkindly, but there’s an amused tilt to Ben’s smile, like he thinks it’s funny that Brock is so popular. “You’re used to having people treat you a certain way, Brock, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. But I think it’s throwing you for a bit of a loop that Elias isn’t like that.”

Is that true? Brock chews on his lip as he picks up the last stray ball and carries the basket back to the equipment room. Sure, people are generally more excited to date Brock than Elias has been, but that’s just how Elias is. He has about six emotions, and his default is _uninterested._ So. It’s fine. It’s all fine --

“What if it’s not fine?” he whispers to a rack of basketballs. He stands there for a long moment, staring at nothing, before wandering back out into the gym.

Ben is still waiting for him, but he frowns when he sees whatever expression is on Brock's face. “Dude,” he says, slinging an arm over Brock's shoulders and directing him out of the gym. “You _really_ need to talk to Elias about this.”

 

 

Talking to Elias is the logical thing to do, but Brock has never claimed to be logical. He's a lit student; his entire degree is based on diving into theory and hidden meanings in stories written years and years ago. There's no logic to that. 

So he just -- let’s it fester some more. And the more he does nothing about it, the more he sees what everyone else has been telling him.

Everything with Elias is the same as how it was before they started “dating,” with the exception that Brock gets a lot more blowjobs now than he did before. And he gets Elias off too, but the sex always feels a little one-sided, like Elias is treating it as thanks for things that Brock does for him, which isn’t what Brock wants. He wants Elias to suck his dick because he wants to, not because he feels like he’s obligated to.

“Do you want to go on a date tonight?” he asks Elias one afternoon while they’re sitting at the dining room table. They’re finishing up their children’s lit project -- ahead of schedule, which is something Brock’s never achieved before -- and Brock wonders idly what they’ll do once they aren’t required to spend time together anymore. 

“Sure,” Elias says. “What did you have in mind?”

They’ve done dinner, and they’ve done movies; they’ve essentially done all the basic stuff. If this is Brock’s last ditch effort to salvage his maybe-relationship with Elias, it’s time to pull out all the stops.

“Do you want to go to the aquarium?” he asks. Elias’ face lights up.

Which is how they find themselves standing under the cover of a fake rock wall watching sea otters bounce around their enclosure.

“They’re so cute,” Brock gushes, tracing a finger along the glass for the otter to follow. If Jake were there, he’d scold Brock for the amount of germs he’d just collected. 

“They’re so fat,” Elias amends, pointing at one of the otters perched on the platform. It certainly looks less graceful than its friends in the water. “Look at it.”

“Fat and cute,” Brock says, and then, in a bold move, grabs Elias’ hand with his.

Elias raises an eyebrow at him, but doesn’t pull his hand away, which Brock takes to be a good sign. They wander in and out of displays holding hands, and Brock contemplates several times whether or not this or that corner is dark enough to potentially pull Elias into for a makeout session. 

But Elias doesn’t seem to notice. He peers into the tanks with interest, offers inane commentary to Brock that may or may not be a language issue, and refuses every offer for a photo opp that Brock makes. They hold hands the entire time, but the longer Brock clings, the more he realizes that maybe -- maybe this isn’t working out after all.

He hates how that makes his heart ache. 

They spend most of the day at the aquarium, if only because Brock paid 20 dollars each for their admission and wants to milk the experience for all that it’s worth. When they finally step out the front doors again to the same, drizzly weather that’s been clouding the city for the whole day, Elias finally lets go of his hand.

“That was nice,” he says, shoving his hands into his pockets. Brock does the same and swallows the lump in his throat.

“I’m glad you had a good time,” he says. He scuffs the toe of his shoe at the edge of a puddle and bites his lip. He knows what he’s got to do, but it doesn’t make it any easier. If it were easy, Brock probably would have had this conversation weeks ago. 

“Hey,” he says, wincing at the way his voice cracks. Elias raises an eyebrow at him. 

“Hey,” he echoes back.

“This was fun, and I know I called it a date earlier but -- we’re just. We’re casual, right?”

Elias’ face flickers for a moment, a blink-and-miss-it moment. For a second, Brock thinks he looks -- disappointed, but the moment passes and Elias’ bland little smile is back. “Yeah,” he says. “Totally.”

Brock exhales, fiddles nervously with the drawstring on his jacket. “Okay, cool,” he says. “Just wanted -- just wanted to make sure.”

Elias nods his head and pulls his phone out of his pocket. He frowns at whatever he sees, before saying, “I actually have to be downtown to meet a friend,” he says. “He’s at the library and is having a crisis. His English is worse than mine.”

It’s a thin excuse layered with a tone that betrays no lie. Elias is good at pretending to be uncaring, and Brock wonders if his feelings are hurt. Before he can say anything, Elias has typed out a message on his phone, tucked it back in his pocket, and is waving at Brock.

“Thanks again for our date,” he says, sounding amused and like nothing is wrong. Brock’s getting a bit of emotional whiplash here. “See you back at the house?”

“Sounds good,” Brock says, waving as Elias disappears down the walkway towards the bus loop. There’s only one bus back into the city, so Brock waits around in the rain until he’s certain that Elias has boarded a bus, before making his way down to the loop too. Maybe he’ll stop at the store and pick up some ice cream on his way home.

 

 

Brock allows himself to wallow in his feelings for the rest of the day, and then kicks himself into gear. He's still got papers to write and puppies to cuddle and a hockey game to win.

The others must notice a change -- if not in Brock and Elias’ relationship, then at least in Brock's mood. Bo brings him a caramel macchiato one day after class, and Troy makes him pancakes on the weekend. Even Jake is being cordial, though Brock knows he's itching to tell Brock, _I told you so._

But even though things progress as normal -- even though the world continues to turn -- Brock is still sad. He misses seeing Elias’ tiny smiles, misses the fond eyerolls and the cheeky comebacks. They're all things Elias has always done, just without the snark. Like defrosting an ice sculpture and seeing the human underneath.

“You look like a fully functional human being, but I know you,” Ben says, pointing his pencil at Brock. They're all gathered around the dining room table, projects and papers and books spread out around them. The only exception is Elias. “You're still sad.”

“It's fine. It's whatever,” Brock says, which is pretty much what he's been telling people for the past week. “I'll get over it.”

“Yah, Mr. Popularity over there will have no trouble finding someone new,” Jake sneers from his end of the table. “If he can get the Ice Queen to melt, he can have anyone.”

The table falls so silent Brock could hear a pin drop. Or, he could if he could hear anything beyond the rushing noise in his ears. He doesn't even realize that he's standing until Troy tugs on his sleeve to try and make him sit down again.

“What is your problem?” Brock snaps, leaning on the table just to have something to do with his hands that isn't punching Jake's face in. “You're supposed to be my best friend but you're acting like such an asshole!”

“I'm the asshole?” Jake asks, looking bewildered. “When was the last time we even talked about something that wasn't Elias? You've been a shitty friend too, Brock.”

The truth stings, but Brock is too angry to feel much. “All you do is study and clean,” he sneers. “What is there to talk about? You switched into pre-med and it's like I don't even know you anymore.”

There's a long pause, and if Brock hadn't lived with Jake for the past two years, he'd think he'd rendered Jake speechless. But Jake's deathly silence isn't him trying to find the right words; it's him trying to reign in his anger so he doesn't break the dining room table -- again.

“Do you not think I can do it?” Jake asks quietly. He slams his textbook shut. “Is this -- is this just some kind of big joke to all of you?”

“Jakey,” Bo begins but is cut off by one sharp stare from the man in question. 

“I’m scared of germs, okay? I watched a series on Netflix this summer and now I'm terrified of germs and how fragile the human body is, and I'm sorry if that makes me weird and neurotic and not the person that I was at the end of last year, but I can't help it!”

Jake’s chest is heaving and his eyes are glassy looking and Brock’s chest feels tight with anger and sadness. How did everything get so messed up? When did it start to get this bad? Brock’s always prided himself in being a good friend, being there for the guys when they need him, but clearly Jake’s been needing him all term and Brock has been too distracted to tell.

“It’s not that we don’t think you can do it,” Troy says, finally, breaking the silence. He looks awkward, but he’s got that look on his face that also means he’s trying to be a good frat president. “We’re just worried about you. You study so much and you look tired all the time. We support you, but we want you to take care of yourself too.”

“And we don’t mind the cleaning,” Ben adds. “It’s nice to not come home to a pigsty all the time.”

Jake’s mouth tightens into a thin line. He stands up, grabs his phone, and heads to the door.

“Where are you going?” Brock asks, finally finding his voice. It feels like there’s a large hole in his chest and he doesn’t know how to sew it up.

“Anywhere but here,” Jake replies. He shoves his feet into his shoes and slams the door on his way out. 

 

 

So. The term started out auspiciously enough, and now it's a whole fucking disaster, and Brock would like nothing more than to be swallowed up by the floor and pass on to his next life already. 

Or go home for winter break and let his mum pet his hair.

He and Elias finish their lit project via Google Docs and seem to silently agree on staying as far away from each other in the house as possible. It means that Elias spends a lot of time either in his room or out of the house entirely, and it reminds Brock a lot of the beginning of term, when Elias was just a pain in their sides. 

“I don't want him to feel like he doesn't belong here,” Brock mutters to his reflection one morning. It's certainly not his intention to chase Elias out of the house, but to most people it's pretty obvious that the other boys in the house were Brock's friends first and therefore, they default to his side for arguments. 

Things with Jake are also not great. He steadfastly ignores everyone in the house. Brock hears him leave early in the morning before anyone is awake, and then come home when most of the guys are getting ready for bed. Bo looks like he's about to explode from worry.

The only thing that -- surprisingly -- brings them all together, is hockey practice. Things are stilted and awkward, but they all show up twice a week, which is more than Brock expected. 

Granted, it makes things difficult when Elias won't look at Brock, and Jake won't look at anyone, but it's a start.

They're not actually half bad now that they've been practicing regularly for the past couple weeks. Brock suspects that Bo's been coming to the gym on his own, because his stick handling has miraculously gotten a lot better, but Bo's always been an overachiever that way. 

“Okay, so, the game is scheduled for the second-to-last day of classes,” Elias instructs, batting a ball around lightly. “That's two weeks away.”

“We'll be ready by then,” Ben says confidently. “Look at how far we've come in the last two weeks.”

Elias’ mouth disappears into a thin line. “The other team is good, Hutty,” he says. “We've still got a long ways to go.”

“I'm done my midterms,” Troy adds. “I've just got some group projects to work on, but my schedule is clearing up a bit.”

Brock nods. “I just have some papers and a Paws for a Caws event to plan.”

“I still have midterms,” Jake mutters. It's so quiet Brock thinks Jake didn't mean for anyone to hear it, but the gym echoes a lot. Jake's face turns red, but he doesn't look at any of them. 

“And you'll do well on them all,” Bo says after a moment. It's awkward because it's clear Bo is trying to make things as normal as possible when things feel anything but.

“It's fine if you miss a couple practices,” Elias says. He sounds tired, but Brock is mostly caught off guard by the fact that it's probably the nicest thing Elias has ever said to Jake, and he hadn't even been there for Jake's meltdown. 

Jake mumbles what could have been a _thank you_ , but doesn't say anything else. Their practice resumes.

“Brock and I will clean up,” Bo announces when they're wrapping up, which Brock does not remember volunteering himself for. But Bo fixes him with his best parental figure look, so Brock resigns himself to another practice of picking up orange floor hockey balls from all over the gym.

“So, what’s up, Cap?” he asks once Troy’s bounced out the door shouting for pizza. Brock rifles a few balls back in the general direction of the basket they’re using to collect. Judging from Bo’s disgruntled noises, he’s missed by quite a lot.

“Have you talked to Jake recently?” Bo asks, which seems like a strange question. Brock’s sure that his facial expression mirrors his confusion.

“Uh, no,” Brock replies. “Should I have?”

This time, Bo is the one to shoot Brock a weird look. “He’s your best friend, isn’t he?” he asks. “I would’ve thought he’d want to talk to you.”

Brock hates the way his laugh comes out bitter and unhappy sounding. “Cap,” he says, “if Jake doesn’t want to talk to you, he certainly doesn’t want to talk to me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re Bo Horvat,” Brock replies. He’s collected all the balls from his half of the gym, so he shuffles back to the basket and starts scooping them up. “You’re, like, the light of everyone’s life. When Elias moved here and hated all of us, he only marginally disliked you. Jake let’s you get away with calling him _Jakey_ like he’s a small child and you’re his dad or something. People adore you.”

Bo stares at him for so long that Brock’s a little afraid he’ll catch on fire from the intensity of it. Finally, Bo picks up a ball and lobs it at Brock’s head. “You’re an idiot.”

“Excuse me!” Brock squawks, ducking the throw. Bo’s arm is a lot better than his shot. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Brock. You are genuinely the most well-liked person on this campus, and that’s not a joke. My classmates ask about you all the time because even though you continually embarrass yourself at the law cafe, they still want to get to know you.”

That’s -- embarrassing. Brock likes being the centre of attention, but not because he’s yelling about how he looks like a sentient gummy bear or something equally as stupid. He makes a mental note to not apply for law school.

“Jake told you that you were being a shitty friend because he wants you to be a better friend _now_. He’s hurt, not looking for a new best friend.”

“But he's mad at me. How am I supposed to make things better if he doesn't want to see me?”

Bo pinches the bridge of his nose, like this conversation is testing him. It probably is. For the first time, Brock feels a little bad that Bo still has to live in a house with them. 

“He wants you to go and apologize to him for blowing him off for Elias all the time -- do not make a sex joke about that we're having a serious conversation right now.”

Brock bites his tongue.

“Jake's going through a tough transitional period. Just tell him you got caught up in a boy but he comes first and that you'll be there for him while he cries through his finals.”

It seems reasonable enough. Brock's not so much of a dick that he can't admit that he definitely ignored a lot of people -- Jake included -- when he was caught up in Elias. And it would be nice to be able to wail about his failed love for one night with his best friend.

“I guess you're right,” he says dejectedly, picking up the last of the balls and hauling the basket back to the storage room.

“Of course I am,” Bo calls. “That’s why I'm the captain.”

Brock almost drops his basket, which would have been unfortunate and messy. “ _What?_ ” he shouts. “I thought you hated that nickname?”

When he stumbles out of the storage locker again, Bo has a sheepish grin on his face. “I do,” he admits. “Or, I did. But people at law school think it's cool so -- “

“Oh my god,” Brock moans. “Do not let Troy find out because he'll hold it over your head for the rest of your life.”

“Noted,” Bo says, slinging an arm over Brock's shoulder. “Now, let's go home. You've got a friendship to fix.”

 

 

Brock's stood outside Jake's door fairly often since moving into the house. Sometimes he has pizza or beer or homework, but today he's empty handed and awkward. Bo had said that Jake needed a friend, but Brock couldn't help the fear that bubbled inside him. What if Jake didn't want him here?

Across the hall is Elias’ bedroom door. It's shut, but there isn't any light sneaking out from the bottom, indicating that Elias isn't home. Brock hasn't seen him much outside of hockey practice the last few days. He wonders what Elias is up to, then quickly squashes the thought when his heart stutters painfully.

“Just knock,” he tells himself, puffing out his chest a little and standing up straighter. He raises his fist, hesitates just for a moment, and then shrieks when the door opens suddenly.

Jake screams too, though Brock is 99 percent sure it's more from the surprise of Brock yelling in his face than anything else. He takes a step back, spills half a cup of coffee all over himself, and narrowly misses falling flat on his back. 

“What the fuck?” he asks, clutching his chest. Brock rubs the back of his head sheepishly. “Were you going to knock?”

“Well, yeah,” Brock says. “Didn't you see my hand? I was all ready and everything.”

Jake makes a face. He glances down at his shirt and his expression turns even more sour. “No, sorry,” he replies. “I was too busy looking at how you were, like, three inches away from my face when I opened the door.”

The banter feels normal, and for a split second, Brock forgets about the fight and the fallout and remembers what it was like to be on the same page as Jake. The illusion is shattered when Jake asks, “What do you want?” in the most hostile tone Brock’s heard from him.

Brock opens and closes his mouth several times, to the point where he’s sure he resembles a goldfish. What ends up coming out is a tentative, “Sorry?” which Jake immediately scoffs at.

“Yeah, okay, nice try but if you’re not going to be sincere you can get the fuck out,” Jake says. 

Brock from two weeks ago would yell at Jake for being so rude and probably pick a fight over something stupid. But Brock of today can see the tight lines at the corners of Jake’s eyes, the way the dark circles under them seem to stand out against the paleness of Jake’s skin. His hair is a disaster in the way that it used to be when Jake would go too many days without washing his hair. Germaphobe Jake never goes two days without, so Brock knows whatever’s stressing Jake out is getting to him badly.

So he sucks up his pride and says, “No, Jake, I’m sorry. Honestly. You were right, I was a bad friend.”

Jake scrutinizes him for a moment. His shoulders are still drawn up, and he looks a bit like a crazed monkey that might leap and claw Brock’s eyes out at any moment, but after an excruciatingly long pause, Jake’s shoulders drop as he exhales and says, “Thanks.”

It’s not quite acceptance, but Brock knows that will come later. He steps further into the room, letting the door shut behind him, and tentatively sits down on the edge of Jake’s bed. The covers are thrown about haphazardly -- a far cry from the neatly made bed Jake kept for most of the term so far. The signs for Jake’s downward spiral have obviously been there; Brock’s just been too caught up in himself to notice, apparently. 

“So,” Brock says, picking at a rip in his jeans, and then immediately stopping. It reminds him vividly of the first time Elias gave him a blowjob. “Complain to me about pre-med. No judgement, of course. And then come with me to my Paws for a Caws meeting to cuddle a puppy.”

Jake smiles softly and sinks down on the bed next to Brock and punches him in the arm. “I want puppies for the next two weeks, please,” he says, and then launches into a detailed account of some biology thing that Brock doesn't understand anything about. 

 

 

Two puppy playdates, three meals off campus, and a chocolate sundae later, Jake finally pats the edge of his bed and says, “Okay, tell me about what happened between you and Pettersson.”

The fact that Jake still calls Elias by his last name is a testament to how he feels, and Brock feels endlessly grateful that he has a friend who will listen to him complain about someone who has insulted Jake as much as Elias has.

“What’s there to talk about?” Brock asks, flopping backwards and landing on a stuffed animal. Brock distinctly remembers winning it for Jake at Playland one spring. “We were fucking and now we’re not.”

“But you wanted to do more than just bang, right?” Jake asks, poking Brock in the side. Brock groans in response. “Well, did you tell him that?”

Brock opens his mouth and then shuts it again. “I made a lot of gestures,” he says, ignoring Jake’s glare.

“Did you open that stupid goldfish mouth of yours and say, _Elias, be my boyfriend_?”

Brock’s silence is probably more telling than any half-assed excuse he could come up with, so he doesn’t grant Jake the satisfaction of seeing him flounder for an answer. Jake smacks him in the stomach anyway.

“You’re an idiot,” he says. “What happened?”

“I told him we were just casual and he agreed and then he refused to look at me anymore,” Brock says dryly. He can still remember Elias in the rain outside of the aquarium, the way he’d turned away so quickly and disappeared back into the city.

“Yeah, and did you ever wonder why he stopped talking to you? If you guys had just been fuck buddies there probably wouldn’t be so much hostility right now.”

Brock tries his best to shrug his shoulders while lying down. “It’s Elias. What do you expect? It took him three months before he’d even look at anyone with an expression other than a scowl.”

“Now you just sound like me.” Jake flops down beside Brock and elbows him in the side. “Look, I’m only going to tell you this once because it pains me to be nice to Pettersson, but you’re my best friend and you look dumb when you’re sad.”

Brock frowns.

“Elias Pettersson, our resident demon child and sass master, has the biggest crush on you ever. So big it can be seen from the moon, probably.”

That seems -- improbable. Brock knows when people have crushes on him. He’s popular. At least 50 percent of the people he talks to on any given day have a crush on him. Elias is not one of those people. 

Besides, Jake had spent a considerable part of the last several weeks trying to convince Brock that he was being used for sex, which Brock points out. 

Jake’s face turns an amusing shade of pink. “Okay, well, I feel like I can justify saying _I told you so_ , because up until, like, two days ago, I definitely thought that that was the case. So. I told you so.”

Brock makes an aborted hand motion that he hopes conveys, _Please, get on with it._

Jake sighs. He rubs the back of his neck and stares up at the ceiling for a moment. Brock knows a procrastination tactic when he sees one, and he’s sat through enough study sessions with Jake to recognize this as Jake’s go-to avoidance technique. 

“Let’s just say that he looked like a kicked puppy and you didn’t look much better,” Jake says after a long pause. “The point is, people change and he probably realized that he had a good thing going for him before he went and threw it all away.”

Brock props himself up so he can look down at Jake’s face. “You’re hiding something from me,” he says, “but we can come back to that later. Mostly I’m still really skeptical about Elias having a crush on me. I don’t believe that.”

Jake blinks a couple times and then says, “I’m going to rewind time 30 seconds so I can pretend I didn’t have to witness you being that stupid. Did you even hear anything I just said to you?”

Brock should be more offended than he is. Truly. But he can’t quite wrap his head around the idea that Elias has a crush on him. It was just a friends with benefit deal, wasn’t it? Brock had tried to turn it into something more, but Elias had clearly not been interested. When he says as much to Jake, Jake shakes his head.

“You literally never said to him, ‘let’s be boyfriends’. How was he supposed to know?”

“Are you defending him?” Brock whines. “I thought I was your best friend?”

“You are,” Jake replies. He climbs off the bed and heads over to the fridge sitting under the desk and grabs an energy drink. Apparently this conversation is exhausting. “You’re just in denial.”

“Of what?”

“The fact that you like him back but he’s going back to Sweden at the end of the semester.”

It’s a bit like having a bucket of cold water dumped on his head, which Brock is familiar with because of the Ice Bucket challenge he did back in high school. And, well, it’s not like Brock hasn’t thought about how his time with Elias was limited. He’d spent the whole first week of school wishing it were already the end of the semester so that he could be rid of Elias already. 

But having this information so bluntly delivered to him by his best friend is -- it’s a bit of a slap in the face. 

“I hate when you’re right,” Brock says after a long pause. He knows he must look extremely tragic based on the fact that Jake doesn’t even say, “I told you so,” when he settles back on the bed.

“What are you going to do about it?” Jake asks. He offers Brock a sip of the energy drink, and Brock briefly contemplates chugging the whole thing. It might be a dick move, though, considering he and Jake just made up.

“What is there to do about it?” Brock asks. “Even if we make up, I still have to deal with the fact that Elias is going to leave in, like, a month.”

Jake shrugs a little. “I mean, I can’t make the decision for you,” he says, “but don’t you think you should at least talk to Elias about how stupid you were about your relationship status? I think he deserves at least an explanation.”

Brock stares at the ceiling of Jake’s room. It’s that weird popcorn stucco that Brock’s seen countless home improvement shows smooth out at homeowner requests. Brock thinks it’s kind of cool looking. 

“Brock.”

“Okay, okay,” Brock says, rolling onto his side and burying his face in the belly of the stuffed animal he’d been lying on. It’s a panda. “But first, can we go visit the puppies again?”

He doesn’t have to be able to see Jake to know that he’s rolling his eyes. “C’mon, you big baby,” Jake says, sliding off the bed. He tugs at Brock’s legs until Brock slithers off the bed like a particularly limp noodle and adds, “Petunia the pug is waiting for me. Get up.”

 

 

The fun thing about children’s lit with Markstrom is that Markstrom seems to fly by the seat of his pants in terms of lesson planning. At this point in the term, Brock figures that the syllabus is more of a general guideline than any sort of actual plan.

Which is why it’s very unsurprising when Markstrom strides into class and announces, “I’ve decided to mark all your final projects early so that we can do an activity with them in class.”

Someone squeaks in terror from the back row. Out of the corner of his eye, Brock sees the corner of Elias’ mouth quirk up.

“I’ll be making all the stories available on Canvas and a required reading list for each class. We’ll be discussing the stories and analyzing them as we’ve been doing all term with more well-known stories.”

Brock can physically feel the mood in the room drop from _Doing Okay For a Monday Morning_ to _I’d Rather Chew Off My Left Leg, Thanks._ He’s not particularly worried about being judged, but he feels the anxiety rolling off in Elias in waves, so he nudges Elias’ foot with his own.

Elias shoots him an unreadable look, but it’s the first time they’ve made eye contact in what feels like weeks. Brock’s traitorous heart beats a bit quicker, and he’s certain that whatever attempt at a placating smile he offers probably looks a little demonic. He’s never been good at smiling with his teeth.

“To get us started, we’ll be reading Brock and Elias’ story titled _Accepting Myself_. Make sure you’ve read it by Wednesday’s class. If you don’t participate in the discussion, you’ll be docked participation marks. Your grades are posted, have a nice day!” And like his usual self, Markstrom whirls out of the room faster than Brock can blink.

The room springs to life around him, and Brock shakes himself out of his stupor. Beside him, Elias is packing up his bag, so Brock takes the opportunity to -- tentatively -- ask, “Have you checked our mark yet?”

“98 percent,” Elias replies in the short, clipped way he speaks to everyone. Brock wonders if he just imagined the warmth that he used to hear in Elias’ tone when they were -- hanging out. 

“What’d we lose two percent for?” Brock complains, shoving his pen in his pocket and scooping up his notebook. He’d slept in that morning and had only had time to grab a random notebook off the dining room table (Ben’s Korean Popular Music in Context notes, apparently). The pen had blessedly been left behind on the lectern when he’d walked into class.

“Our drawings.”

“What?” Brock exclaims. “The drawings were worth two percent on their own. You’re telling me he gave us a zero for those?”

Elias shoots Brock an exasperated look. “Brock,” he says, “you drew stick figures and stuck fangs on one of them. The sheep was a cloud with legs.”

“Yeah, but having drawings in the first place should have given us a minimum of half a percent,” Brock whines. 

Elias shrugs instead of replying, and immediately things return to their natural, awkward state, which is stupid. So Brock musters up every ounce of courage in his body, opens his mouth, and is promptly interrupted by some guy from Elias’ floor hockey team appearing in the doorway.

“Elias,” he calls, and then yammers out something in Swedish.

Elias doesn’t even offer Brock a backward glance as he zips up his backpack and hurries off to his friend. They bro-hug, and Brock stares forlornly at their backs as they traipse down the hallway. 

Maybe this is just how it’s meant to be. Maybe the universe is telling him that he’s not meant to sort things out with Elias. There’s only a couple weeks left of classes, and then exams. Brock really only has to deal with Elias for another month. Even if it’s in this weird limbo, Brock’s sure he can handle it.

 

 

Brock had not previously been nervous about having a class of 20-year-olds discuss his short story on Ben the vampire who is scared of being a vampire, but within three minutes of the discussion, he’s feeling a little queasy.

“I know this is a discussion about the story, but can I just address the elephant in the room first?” Jenny asks when Markstrom nods at her to speak. “The drawings were bad.”

“Oh my god,” Elias mutters.

“Like, drawing wasn’t an important part of the story but I’m pretty sure that everyone else put in at least _some_ effort.”

“Thank you, Jenny,” Markstrom says placidly. “And your thoughts on the actual story?”

“I thought it was a pretty common storyline,” Jenny says. “Not liking yourself but not being able to see all the unique things about you that other people like.”

“I thought all the animals were weird,” one kid offers. “Like, why was Ben the only humanoid character in the story? Why did he befriend animals only?”

“Maybe the animals represent a diversity of people,” someone else says. “Like, everyone is different and we shouldn’t let things like race, religion, or sexual orientation get in the way of us being kind and friendly to one another.”

Brock’s a little surprised. They’d mostly chosen animals for the additional characters in the story because they had wanted Ben to have a pet. It had gradually dissolved into Ben just being friends with a bunch of woodland creatures instead. And a sheep.

“I liked the message at the end,” the kid behind Brock says. “I like that it wasn’t just the sappy, _You’re perfect the way you are_ shtick. The bear told Ben that while he should accept himself, changing to better yourself _for_ yourself isn’t a bad idea either.”

“I thought the bear was just telling Ben he was an asshole and should try to be nicer to the other animals.”

“Okay, well. Yeah. But he was also trying to be nice about it.”

Brock’s kind of amazed by how much bullshit his classmates can pull out of a 2000 word story about an angsty vampire, but he figures that with their participation marks on the line, it’s not entirely unexpected. Beside him, Elias is fidgeting with a pen.

“These are all very thoughtful insights,” Markstrom says. He’s been keeping track of their notes on the blackboard, complete with little doodles. Brock’s dismayed to see that Markstrom’s drawing of a bear looks much more like a bear than the weird stick creature Brock had drawn for their project. Maybe their lost two percent was deserved.

“I’ll now turn it over to the authors,” Markstrom says, breaking Brock out of his drawing woes. “Gentlemen, care to talk a bit about your intentions for the story? Who was Ben based off of?”

“Our roommate, Ben,” Brock says at the same time that Elias says, “Myself.”

Which. What?

Markstrom makes an interested noise in the back of his throat. “Do you feel comfortable elaborating on that, Elias?”

 _Yes,_ Brock thinks, angling himself in his seat to face Elias. _Please do_.

Elias shrugs. “I didn’t really feel like I fit in at the beginning of the term,” he says. “I live with these guys who have been friends with each other for years. Sometimes it’s hard to fit yourself into a family like that.”

It’s a little disconcerting, hearing Brock’s thoughts from the first day of class echoed back at him. Most of his concerns for Elias fitting in with them flew out the window once he realized how rude Elias was. 

“I wasn’t very nice to my roommates at first, but somehow they all found small things to like about me.”

The animals are metaphors for each member of the house, Brock realizes. He’s the bear at the end. The sentient gummy bear.

“And have you also found things to change about yourself, as one of your classmates suggested was implied at the end of the story.”

Elias takes a shaky breath. “Maybe, more like I found things I would’ve changed about how I’d shown myself to people at the beginning of the term. I think I was afraid to get too attached because, in the end, I’m going to leave, right?”

He directs the last question at Brock, and Brock suddenly feels the eyes of the entire class on him. It becomes very apparent to him why people call it “The Hot Seat”.

“I think getting attached is a very brave thing to do,” Brock says carefully. “But I also think that not being upfront with people and having clear conversations is cowardly.”

“Are we still talking about the story?” Jenny complains, “Or have we all just become Brock and Elias’ therapists?” 

“Oh my god, Jenny,” Brock groans and covers his face. When he peeks through his fingers, Elias is looking at him thoughtfully.

“I guess we should talk after class,” Elias says quietly. 

“You can talk now,” Markstrom says tiredly. “You two are dismissed. The class and I will finish up our discussion of your story. Don’t forget, we’re looking at Dylan and Connor’s story next week. It’s called … _Sticks Out_.

“For Harambe,” someone mutters.

“Oh my god,” Jenny screeches, and Brock takes that as his cue to bounce. He grabs his backpack with one hand, Elias’ wrist with the other, and flees the chaos.

 

 

“So,” Brock says once they’ve settled into an empty corner of the law cafe. There’s still 15 minutes left of classes, so the cafe is less crowded than it could be on a Wednesday morning. 

“So,” Elias parrots. It’s his usually sassy response, but Brock can hear the weariness in it too. 

All the little things that Brock’s picked up on Elias over the semester add up to this snarky, prickly boy sitting across from him. Brock’s heart feels warm.

“I’m sorry,” he says, reaching across the table and grabbing Elias’ hand. Tentatively, Elias threads their fingers together.

“What do you have to be sorry for?” Elias asks. “I’ve been the cowardly vampire all semester.”

“It was maybe pointed out to me that I was not as -- forthcoming and upfront as I could have been,” Brock admits. “I let past experiences rule my decisions.”

The corner of Elias’ mouth turns up. “You mean the fact that everyone is always falling all over you?”

Brock makes a noise akin to screaming with his mouth closed. Someone at the next table looks over.

“Who told you that?” Brock mutters, ducking his head.

Elias shrugs. “Everyone,” he replies. “But mostly Jake.”

For a second, Brock’s brain shuts off. When it reboots, he asks, “Sorry, I thought you just said Jake? Like. Jake Virtanen who lives in our house, Jake? Jake who hates your guts and was the snake in our storybook Jake?”

“The one and only,” Elias replies. “He came after me a week or two ago because you were so mopey.”

Suddenly, the conversation he’d had with Jake makes a lot of sense to Brock. The shady way he’d avoided telling Brock the truth was mostly just a defense mechanism for Jake’s pride, which Brock can respect. Especially since a week ago would’ve been in the middle of their fight, if Brock recalls correctly, which means that Jake was still sticking up for him even after Brock had spent the entire semester being a shit friend. He’ll have to buy Jake a fruit basket or something. Or a six pack.

“The point is,” Elias continues, “you made assumptions, but so did I. When you asked if we were just casual at the aquarium, I thought you didn’t want anything serious.”

Brock blinks. “Okay, but, like. I thought _you_ didn’t want anything serious.”

“That was maybe brought to my attention.”

Brock’s head feels like it might just explode. The miscommunication between them is truly astounding, and Brock’s certain they can’t even blame the language barrier considering that no actual words were attempted to have been exchanged.

“You never showed an interest,” he chooses to say instead. “Like. I asked you out on dates and I bought you coffees and I even took you to see my puppies.”

The corners of Elias’ mouth twist. It looks almost sad. “Don’t you remember?” he asks. “I’m the cowardly vampire from our story. I thought getting too close would hurt too much in the end.”

“And this was better?” Brock asks. He doesn’t mean for it to come out so quietly, but he can’t help the emotions that feel like they’re choking him.

“I told you I was a cowardly vampire, not an emotionally competent one,” Elias replies, trying for humour. He squeezes Brock’s hand. “I think by the time I realized just how much I liked you -- all of you, actually -- it seemed too late. I’m going away in a month, Brock. Most people break up long distance anyway.”

Logically, Brock knows this. Troy broke up with his girlfriend of three years last year because they went to different schools. Jake’s brother broke up with his girlfriend before they went off to university apparently. Brock knows a lot of people that didn’t try long distance, but he always wondered why. Was it not even worth it to give it a shot?

“In the end, I wished I could’ve gone back and done it all differently,” Elias says, quiet and almost shy sounding. “Maybe I would’ve been less -- prickly.”

“Well, you’re here now,” Brock says. “And that’s what counts.”

Which is true. Brock certainly could’ve done without the heartbreak this semester, but he gets where Elias was coming from. It’s pretty much exactly what Brock was worried about too, and instead of walking down the path of uncertainty together, they’d apparently forged on alone. 

When he says as much to Elias, Elias replies with, “You watch too many soap operas.”

“They’re all k-dramas that Ben watches,” Brock complains. “His course is on kpop but he spends so much time watching dramas I’m surprised he’s not fluent in the language already.”

Elias shoots him an amused grin, like Brock hasn’t seen him watching k-dramas with Ben too. He knows Elias is a secret _What’s Wrong with Secretary Kim?_ fan.

“So. We’re both at fault,” he says, squeezing Elias’ hand to pull him back to the serious conversation they’d been having. 

“I guess so,” Elias replies. He bites his lower hip and looks at Brock from under his lashes. “What do you think we should do about it?”

There’s not a lot of time left in the term. Two weeks and then exams. But there’s also the summer, and there are telephones and video chats, and maybe Brock can go on an exchange next year too. There’s a lot of uncertainty, but there’s lots of potential, too, and Brock’s tired of letting what he thinks things will be like rule his decisions on how things should be.

So he takes a deep breath, squeezes Elias’ hand again and asks, “Elias, do you want to be my boyfriend?”

 

 

The day of the floor hockey game dawns bright and early. It's two days before the end of classes, and Brock is looking forward to winning the game today and then getting drunk enough to not comprehend when the day rolls into tomorrow. The tradition of LDOC Drinking will just have to get started early.

“What if we lose?” Jake asks, tying a dorky bandana around his head. He looks considerably rejuvenated considering his last midterm had been the week before and his first final is in two days. Brock doesn’t envy the life of a pre-med student at all, thanks.

“Isn’t that just more reason for us to drink?” Ben asks. “Drown our sorrows tonight and then celebrate our freedom tomorrow?”

“I don’t want to be sober for the next 48 hours,” Troy adds. “If I have to go dry through exams, the least I can do is try to drown myself before they even start.”

Across the court from them sits the enemy: Kotkaniemi and his Merry Band of Jerks, featuring Matheson of infamous party fame. In the stands is a decent amount of people: Elias’ exchange friends, Jenny and some of the others from children’s lit, Ben’s basketball team. Brock suspects a lot of them are already drinking too, based on the large number of Gatorade bottles everyone’s clutching.

“Can I say something?” Elias asks, breaking Brock out of his dream of rum and Coke. He turns his attention to Elias, who’s fidgeting with his hockey stick. He looks nervous, which is rare.

“Well, you’re already talking,” Jake says, but there’s a lot less malice to the comment than there might have been a few weeks ago. Brock is proud.

Elias shoots Jake an unamused look before turning back to the rest of them. “I just wanted to say thank-you - “

“Oh no,” Troy says, standing up and attempting to put his hand over Elias’ mouth. Elias sidesteps him and Troy trips over his stick, stumbling into Bo. The two teeter for a moment, but don’t fall over, which is lucky. Brock would hate to be out two players before the game even started.

“We don’t really do sappy speeches,” Brock offers, picking up on Elias’ confusion. “Last year Bo tried to give us a goodbye speech when he graduated and he cried so hard he was hiccuping for an hour.”

“I was really drunk,” Bo protests.

“You absolutely were not, you liar,” Ben retorts. “You were stone-cold sober, and we love you for it, Cap.”

Bo makes a sound as if to protest, but Elias bangs his stick on the ground. He glares at them all for a moment and then says, “I just wanted to thank you for letting me live in your house this semester and for coming out to defend your honour with me today. It’s nice to have friends like you guys.”

Ben coos. Brock would roll his eyes if he weren’t feeling so incredibly fond. 

“We’re not just here for our honour, Elias,” Bo says, twirling his stick in his hands. “Friends stick up for each other.”

Elias smiles, a full smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. It’s a welcome sight compared the scowl Elias has sported for the last week or so. Between all the preparations for the game and last minute assignments, Brock’s seen Elias’ mask of indifference crumble to that of the mortal university student: something akin to panic and hopelessness. It’s nice to know he’s human after all. 

“The point is, I know I'm difficult to get along with, but most of you like me anyway, and that's a relief.”

“You're like, an entirely different person once given a puppy,” Jake admits, almost begrudgingly. Last week Brock had taken the house to one of his society meetings and let them cuddle with puppies. Elias had spent most of the afternoon cooing at a Pomeranian who looked equally as happy to have been held. 

“Are you talking about Brock or the dog from last week?” Adam whispers, which earns him a smack in the shins from Brock. 

“It's kind of true, though,” Bo adds thoughtfully. “Brock definitely mellowed you out, except for that time when you two were too stupid to understand feelings and were too sad to function.”

“Let's not talk about that!” Brock yells. Every head in the gymnasium turns to look at them, obviously curious as to what they aren't meant to be talking about.

“Better to get the stupid out now,” Elias says, leaning into Brock a little. It's nice. Brock thinks his heart has grown three sizes. “I'd like you to be respectable and smart when you visit this summer.”

“What!” several people exclaim at once.

“Brock!”

“You're going to Sweden this summer?”

“Can I come?”

“You want to third wheel these two?”

The conversation mostly dissolves into aimless bickering from there. Brock grins, turns his head, and presses a kiss to Elias’ temple. It's exactly the kind of sappy thing that Brock loves to do, and Elias apparently doesn't mind.

It's nice, he thinks, to be surrounded by people he cares about. For this single afternoon, nothing else seems to matter. He can forget about the score of the game and his exams and Elias’ impending departure. He has his brothers and he has Elias and that's all he really needs.

“Thanks,” Brock says, nudging Elias.

Elias turns to look at him, the corner of his mouth turning up curiously. “For what?” he asks.

Brock shrugs. “For getting yourself put in our house for the semester.”

Elias laughs. “For the record, if I had known beforehand, I probably would've asked to have had it changed.”

Sounds pretty reasonable. Brock wouldn't have expected anything less. “But the point is, you didn't,” he says. “And I'm extremely grateful for that.”


End file.
